The Wagers of War and Peace
by Areias
Summary: What would happen if the Airborn series (Mr. Kenneth Oppel) were integrated into the universe of the Leviathan series? With a similar historical backdrop, what would happen when the four main characters: Alek, Deryn, Matt, and Kate, meet while the world ignites in the Great War? Crossover between Airborn and Leviathan, read and find out if you like it!
1. First Flight

**Author's Notes:**

This is a crossover fic between the _Leviathan_ series by Mr. Westerfeld, and the _Airborn_ series by Mr. Oppel. I've tried my best at reconciling the various conflicting aspects of the two series, so they can function together in one universe. These tweaks to the setting will be explained as the story plays out. For readers of only _Leviathan_, the most major difference is that the _Airborn_ series contains a fictional gas called hydrium which is lighter than hydrogen and non-flammable, and which also smells like mangoes. Hydrium comes from vents in the earth.

I wrote this chapter mostly as a test to see if it works out. This fic is also designed to be the sequel of my other Airborn-based fic _Freedom, Fascination, and Ferocity_. I don't think it's necessary to have read that, though it would be helpful. However, since I'm nowhere near done with FFF, I won't be working on this fic much, because it would contains spoilers for FFF.

That said (if anyone is still reading), please provide any feedbacks or reviews of what you liked and didn't like since this is very much a work in progress that can be revised and changed.

* * *

_**The storm felt strangely still.**_

_**She remembered the sensation from Da's hot-air balloons. Cut free from its tether, the medusa had exactly matched the speed of the wind. The air felt motionless, the earth turning below on a giant lathe.**_

_**Dark clouds still boiled around her, giving the Huxley an occasional spin. But worse were the flickers in the distance. One sure way to set a hydrogen breather aflame was to hit it with lightning. Deryn distracted herself by watching London pass beneath, all matchbox houses and winding streets, the factories with their sealed smoke-stacks.**_

_**She remembered how Da had said London looked in the days before old Darwin had worked his magic. A pall of coal smoke had covered the entire city, along with a fog so thick that streetlamps were lit during the day. During the worst of the steam age so much soot and ash had decorated the nearby countryside that butterflies had evolved black splotches on their wings for camouflage.**_

_**(Excerpt from Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld, chapter 8. The rest of the chapter incorporates many other excerpts.)**_

But before she'd been born, the great coal-fired engines had been overtaken by biomimicked fabrications — machines designed with nature in mind. Some of these were even half-living, containing strengthened and selected-for tissue. Combining the usefulness of nature and human ingenuity, biomimics, or fabs as some people call them, were the driving force of London and a dozen other Darwinist cities.

The Huxley she was currently dangling on was one of the ones where the living parts outweighed the nonliving parts. It was the earliest fabricated airbeast, and being so primitive, Deryn had no real way to steer or control it at all. Back when hydrogen breathers were first proposed, there had been an uproar — because hydrogen, unlike hydrium, was flammable, and therefore not as safe. But hydrium was very costly and completely inert — hardly any organisms used it for anything — and as a result, it could not be produced through biomimicry or fabrication. In the end, cost outweighed safety and convenience, and fabs had replaced part of the Air Service vessels, saving the government millions of pounds each year in Aruba fuel and lifting gas.

Spreading across the city, Deryn could see mimics and fabs wherever she looked. Over Buckingham Palace, a group of strafing gliders patrolled in spirals, their wings designed from hawks and other birds of prey, carrying nets that would slice apart any aerial foe. The streets were filled with half-living motorcars, their wheels powered by muscle tissue instead of pistons. Messenger spindles travelled to and fro, their design based on terns. Some of them probably had fabricated tern tissue incorporated into the machinery. Most Darwinist machines were graceful and smooth, nothing like the stiff angular monstrosities the Clankers' used.

Deryn shivered, and suddenly realized how cold it was getting. Her clothes were still wet, the sky still dark. Occasional lightning flashed in the distant, and she had to respect the power of the skies, despite how smooth her ride felt. She looked beneath her feet and saw the dark furious waters of the Thames, swelling up from the downpour. A parade of dull-colored umbrellas snaked along slowly on either bank, like some grey-black-blue centipede. She almost smiled at the sight.

Far ahead, the waters of the Channel of Angleterrre churned in silent commotion, barely visible on the horizon. Deryn looked backwards towards the city, the Big Ben and the Tower of London barely visible in the dim light. She checked her bearings once again, and was alarmed to find she was drifting out towards the sea. Slowly, yes, but the miles of ground beneath her was creeping away yard by yard, mile by mile. She reckoned that in about an hour or so, she'd be clear of land, and at the mercy of the sea winds.

"Oi!" she said, kicking out like a lassie on the swing set. "Stop! Go back!"

The Huxley, or the living part of the Huxley, paid her no mind. Of course Deryn knew that the Huxley wasn't doing anything — it was a drifter by design, and could only follow the winds. This made it no less annoying and frustrating though, as she watched the darkness of the Thames' cool depth. It did not look at all welcoming, and plus the Manual of Aeronautics had said that a fall that was fatal on land would be fatal on the sea. She reckoned she was five hundred feet high — slamming into a wall of water here was no different than slamming into a wall of bricks.

A rogue gust of wind carried the Huxley over a rather large fishing vessel. Deryn didn't remember people being this small…

She glanced up at the thin shaft of sunlight that signified a break in the storm, and cursed. As the membranous Huxley dried in the sun, it rose, and her with it.

"Oi! You bum-rag!" she shouted up at the Huxley. "I'm _talking to_ you!"

No reaction.

Deryn scowled. An hour ago the Huxley had been so _easy_ to spook! Perhaps one annoyed lassie's cries didn't amount to much after the terrific storm.

The westerly wind showed no sign of abating, because when Deryn looked back she was even farther away from the city than a couple minutes ago.

"You're a big, bloated bum-rag!" she shouted, more out a resigned annoyance than actual anger now. She wondered if people down below could hear her — a mysterious, heavenly voice screaming obscenities. The thought made her chuckle.

London was now a dull shapeless mass of jagged shadows in the distant, and still under the grips of dark stormy clouds. She saw the massive expanse reach up thousands of feet in the sky, the grey magnificence of the cumulonimbus dwarfing all other things in the sky — not that there were any.

"Ohh," she said to the Huxley, finally understanding. "I reckon the storm's tailspin spun us out." She twisted herself into the strengthening sun, and sighed. "I suppose a bit of sun could be nice."

The Huxley only sighed contentedly as its airbags continued to heave and dry in the warmth. Deryn gave up talking to the biomimic — it was basically just a couple of airbags and things to hang on to anyway, and it wasn't as if jellyfish have that much brain to begin with. For two long years Deryn had wanted nothing more than to go aloft again, like when Da had been alive — and here she was, marooned in the sky. Maybe this was punishment for acting like a boy, just like her mum had always warned.

Green fields rotated underfoot with the now bluish waters of the Thames, and Deryn made her steady way towards the Channel of Angleterre.

It was going to be a long day.

ooo

The Huxley noticed it first.

The pilot's rig jolted under Deryn, like a carriage going over a pothole. Shaken from a catnap, she glared up at the Huxley.

"Getting bored?"

The airbeast seemed to be glowing, the sun shining straight down through iridescent skin. It was noon, so she'd been aloft more than six hours. She was well over the Channel by now, the blue vastness sparkling and glittering beneath her, nothing at all like the old depressing Thames. She reckoned she was about a mile or two offshore — not really lost, but not exactly found, either. Deryn clamped down the tiny doubt that had been growing since her small mishap.

_The Service lads must be coming from me right now_, she told herself. _Don't get your knickers up in a bunch_.

All the same, she did not fancy a whole day drifting about. All that water and the salty coolness around only served to dehydrate her faster than the blazing sun alone could do, and her throat was absolutely parched. A rather horrible thought of being left marooned in the sky entered her mind, and she shuddered. What a load of clart for a middie's first day, eh?

The breeze brought up some spray from the blue giantess below. "Barking lovely weather," Deryn muttered crossly to herself. Sitting for six hours on the same seat was not very kind on her bum.

That's when the airsacs expanded and contracted again. Deryn felt the same little jolt that woke her up in the first place.

"What now?" she moaned, though she'd have welcomed a flock of birds attacking them, as long as it brought the beastie down. Huxleys are buoyant, so maybe she can even ride the thing like a giant lifeboat until someone came to rescue her. _If_ someone came to rescue her.

Deryn scanned the horizon and saw nothing. But she felt a trembling in the leather cords of her pilot's rig and heard the thrum of engines in the air.

Her eyes widened.

A giant airship was emerging from the thinning clouds behind her, its white fabric glistening with dew. There were none of the tell-tale biomimicked buzz of a Service airship, and when the ship started to gently lower herself, Deryn caught a very slight whiff of mangoes. This was a hydrium airship. Civilian airships were still generally Aruba powered and hydrium-based, and of course the Clankers' war zeppelins stayed the same, but this was no Clanker ship — it was too smooth and too graceful. Deryn has seen her fill of airships from around the world, and immediately she judged this one to be too big for a mail ship or a salvage ship, and too fancy for a cargo ship. It had to be one of those luxury trans-continental hydrium airliners she'd heard about. Only fancy-boots could afford to ride in one of those.

The medusa made an unhappy whistling sound.

"No, beastie. Don't fret!" she called softly. "They're here to help!"

At least, Deryn assumed they were. But why was a civilian vessel grabbing her, instead of one belonging to the Service? Skyways law does dictate that all ships have a responsibility to help any stranded vessel, so she supposed that a free-floating Huxley would count among one of those. She had an uncomfortable feeling that a midshipman-to-be wasn't quite at the top of the Service's list of priorities, and this passenger airliner simply happened upon her earlier than any Service ship could come to help.

She had to admit that the ship was quite something. Pure white and just as big as the Service's largest hydrogen breathers, her bulk parted the clouds like a gentle cleaver. The captain further lowered the ship, and soon the bridge was at Deryn's level.

The drone of the engines calmed, and the airship slowed in her approach. Now less than thirty yards away, Deryn could make out the bold lettering on the airship's flanks — _Aurora_.

The bridge took up the entire bottom front of the airship, and its large floor-to-ceiling windows offered Deryn a clear view into the ordered chaos so characteristic of airships. She spotted the helmsmen responsible for elevators, the communications officer in front of his sophisticated equipment, and the navigator peering at some charts. A tall fellow she assumed to be the captain was standing at the wheel, talking to his crew. Junior officers ran from station to station, relaying information with short salutes. The flurry of activity continued for about twenty or so more seconds, before the engines completely died down and everyone on the bridge turned their attention to her.

Deryn couldn't help it. She blushed, and did a tentative wave. Seeing this, the captain said something, and his crew burst into laughter. A few of them waved back. The captain strode calmly over to one of the bridge's windows and pushed it open.

"Good afternoon!" he called out to her from the window. They were now no more than twenty feet apart. "This is the Aurora. We spotted you stranded here and came to investigate. You look like you need some help!"

His accent was strange, a lot flatter and somewhat jarring to Deryn's ears, but surprisingly pleasant. Upon closer inspection, Deryn discovered that he was a handsome young man perhaps Jaspert's age, with short chestnut hair and likable blue eyes. A very young captain to be sure, though he was dressed only in a simple white uniform with a familiar insignia at the chest. His white captain's cap seemed no different than those of his crew.

Deryn cleared her throat and nodded.

"Certainly would be appreciated!"

"That's a Huxley, right?"

"Aye."

The captain nodded. "We'll bring you in from topside, then. I can't bring it through the cargo bay and risk it getting spooked."

Deryn nodded obediently, a little impressed. It was clear that the captain, young as he was, was also experienced. He knew about the Huxleys and how to handle them. Deryn reckoned they were about a mile above water, which gave the _Aurora_ plenty of space to maneuver. She watched as the captain returned to his post, and a few short commands later, the ship's engines started once more, and the massive ship rose smoothly away from the Huxley. Initially this got Deryn quite confused, but when a dozen long hemp ropes dropped down by the side of the Huxley, she understood. They were going to tether her to the ship, and then winch her in from the top.

Except the forest of swaying ropes were all kept at bay by the Huxley's bulk, out of Deryn's reach. She was just about to wonder what she should do, when the airship's engine changed pitch, then slowed, then changed pitched again. The ropes moved a bit, like a bunch of confused snakes, and then as the sound got repeated, they started to sway, matching its rhythm.

Deryn was more impressed now.

A few of the ropes swung closer with every change of the engine's pitch — being a passenger airship of this size, Deryn imagined the _Aurora_ probably couldn't sway too quickly, or all of her posh passengers would get sick. She waited patiently until one of the ropes swung close enough to reach, and grabbed on.

There must be people watching her from up there because soon after she grabbed on, the engines returned to normal. A few seconds later, the _Aurora_ appeared again in her view, gracefully descending like a blue whale preparing for a dive. As she passed the bridge, she saw that the captain was by the window again.

"Do you know how to do a sailor's knot?" He called out.

"Of course!"

"Tie that rope to your rigging, please."

Deryn nodded, and the captain went back in. By the time she finished tying the knot, the _Aurora_ was beneath her, and she admired the entire length of the airship basking under the noonday sun, the blue of the Channel of Angleterre beneath her. It was a fabulous sight, if only she weren't so eager to get rescued because her bum was practically _dying_, and she felt like someone who just walked out of the Sahara.

The _Aurora_ had two tiny dome-shaped crow's nest, one in front and one in the back. The other end of her rope was tethered to a winch at the fore crow's nest, and there were two people there now. Deryn gave them the aeronautical sign for "Okay", and they started to reel her in.

The winch went rather fast, and in almost no time she was being helped down her complicated riggings. Turns out these men haven't seen those special Service knots either, so in the end they cut Deryn from the Huxley with small knives. Not that she minded the least bit. A few more crew members appeared, and tied more knots to the Huxley. Some of them were visibly nervous around the beastie, and Deryn wondered if they had ever seen biomimicked fabrications, or if they were monkey luddites. With some help, Deryn stumbled onto the specially treated canvas of the _Aurora_'s topside, and the crew cheered.

"Welcome aboard the _Aurora_," said one of them.

"Thank you," she replied. The crew managed to tie the Huxley securely to a post, and someone shouted down the speaking tubes. A few seconds later, the _Aurora_'s engines roared, and she started to pick up speed.

Deryn tried to stand up straight, but pain shot down her spine. She wriggled her toes inside Jaspert's boots, trying to erase the pins and needles in her feet.

"Can you stand?" asked another young crewman. "Do you need a hand?"

"I'm fine, just a bit sore."

"How long have you been up there?"

"Six hours," Deryn said, sheepish. "Seven, now."

"Golly! You're with the Air Service, yes?"

"Aye." If a middie-to-be could count. She was sure she'd be recruited, anyway, after surviving _this_.

"Well in any case, we'll be trying to reach the Service by now. They'll know what to do with you."

"Mr. Roswell," came the captain's voice at the crow's nest's speaking tube. "Could you bring our new guest to the bridge?"

"Right away, sir," Mr. Roswell said. He motioned for Deryn to follow. "Can you climb?"

Deryn wriggled her toes some more. They were still numb, but much better.

"Aye," she said. "Lead the way."

ooo

The innards of the _Aurora_ was quite unlike the pictures of the Service's hydrogen breathers. Here, it was just massive bags of hydrium instead of living airsacs, all rustling gently like mango-smelling giants. Mr. Roswell led Deryn through the valley of airsacs, all the way to the bottom where a catwalk stretched into the distance. They followed it like Dorothy on the yellow brick road, and a couple of turns and climbs later, arrived at the _Aurora_'s bridge.

The young captain was talking to one of his officers, but turned around as they entered. He was taller than her — and she was already taller than most sixteen-year-old boys — with a good-spirited grace that almost seemed like a wind in his limbs. He was also quite slender. Now that she got a closer look at his uniform, she could make out the insignia of the airline on his chest.

"Ah, there he is," he said, smiling. He extended his hand, which she shook. "Welcome aboard the _Aurora_, operated by the Lunardi Line. My name is Matthew Cruse, first officer."

Oh, so he wasn't the captain after all. Deryn was surprised, but realized he was still waiting for her answer.

"Midshipman Dylan Sharp, at your service," she said after clearing her throat.

"Dylan Sharp. Very good. One moment please, Dylan."

He turned around and said a few short orders. Deryn thought he was extraordinarily polite for a sky sailor.

"Mr. Kahlo, could you take the helm please? And Mr. Riddihoff, could you please try to raise the Air Service on radio? We should be in their range. Mr. Chen, engines to stall, please; I suppose we'll just circle the Channel until the Service gets in contact." A frown passed on his face. "I'd think the Service would take better care of their middies. We're on a tight schedule."

"Oh, it was the storm, sir." Deryn felt compelled to defend the Service. "It caught us unawares as I was doing my midshipman's test. The whole morning it stayed in London, sir! Nobody could attempt a rescue mission with the sky like that."

The young man laughed. "I meant no offense, Dylan. Also, I'm not with the Service, you don't need to 'sir' me. In fact, I'm probably not much older than you. You can call me Matt. The storm, huh? I see." He nodded thoughtfully in the direction of London, where the last wisps of the grey swirling clouds was still visible above the sprawling city.

"Aye, sir. I mean, er, Matt." The name sounded strange on her tongue, but Deryn liked how easy-going the young officer was. Some of the sky sailors she's met, including the ones her Da knew, sometimes had attitudes like peacocks. She was glad Mr. Cruse — Matt — was down to earth.

"You said the midshipman's test?"

Deryn blushed. "Aye. I mean, I'm not yet a middie, but I'd like to be."

"I reckon they'll _have_ to let you pass after all this. It's probably the air-sense test that I've heard about, and you have very good air-sense. This is the first time you rode in a Huxley?"

Deryn nodded, her chest puffing up with pride despite herself. Matt looked impressed.

"Very good air-sense indeed." He clapped her on the shoulder. "I wouldn't want to free balloon a Huxley in a storm."

"I had no choice on that part," Deryn said, and they both laughed.

But then as she glanced over his uniform and the neat row of his embroidered name, she realized that she recognized these letters. She blinked and looked at Matt again. Handsome features, short hair, bright eyes, soft brows, and a defined jaw. Yes, she's even seen a few photographs of him.

"Blisters!" she swore. "You're _Matt Cruse_, aren't you? The bloke who killed Spzirglas and all that! And you were just in that fancy Canadian Space Expedition last year!" That explained the strange accent. "Golly, you're famous!"

Matt appeared surprised, before blushing slightly. "That would be me, yes — though I wouldn't say famous, exactly."

Deryn scoffed. "Oh, you're barking famous alright. According to the paper dispatches, you practically saved the expedition! How was it like in outer space?"

The young man blushed some more, which Deryn thought was funny yet genuine.

"It's just a cold, empty place," Matt replied after coughing a little. "It's beautiful, but also deadly. The skies are still better, in my opinion."

"You know, my brother met you once. Before the whole pirate thing, yeah? But half a year later your name popped up in the news and he said, 'I know this fellow!'."

The young man looked confused. "Your brother?"

"Aye. He met you in the North Sea airbase."

"You said you were Dylan Sharp… Sharp… Oh! Could it be Jaspert Sharp?"

"Aye," Deryn said, grinning. "He said you two met when the _Aurora_ requested an emergency refuel because someone couldn't do the numbers."

Matt was smiling now as well. "I remember that. That was our junior navigator, and he had a bit much to drink. Captain Walken was furious. And the Service had almost none of the right equipment so we were left in one of your air bases for a few hours. Your brother and I talked then. Thats how I know about the air sense test, because he was a new middy back then and told me all about his."

"How'd he do?" Deryn wouldn't miss this for the world. She could tease Jaspert with this for ages!

Matt's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "He confessed he was scared out of his wits. Barely passed, he told me."

"I knew it! That bum-rag, acting all high and mighty!"

Matt chuckled, before frowning a little. "But he told me he had a younger sister."

_Barking spiders!_

Deryn almost swore out loud. Damn that clart-headed Jaspert, going on ratting out all the family secrets! Not that she was a secret, but now she certainly was. Deryn Sharp, at least, was a secret. Her mind almost turned into goo as she tried to think of a way to talk herself out of this clart.

"That'd be my, er, cousin. You see, my Da - that is, my uncle died early, so my own Da took Jaspert and his er, sister in, and we grew up together, so I call him my brother." She peered at the young officer, hoping he'd believe it. Matt looked doubtful, but just as he was about to ask another question, his communications officer let out a cry.

"It's the Air Service, sir," he said. "They finally responded. They have a ship doing drills not far from here. They are requesting an aerial transfer."

Matt shrugged. "Looks like more aerial acrobatics for you, Dylan. This does save us both the trouble of landing, though."

Deryn let out a sigh of relief. "Sorry for causing a delay. Where will you be going?"

"New Amsterdaam, and then Lionsgate City. But it's fine — those Americans never care if we're late." He grinned, and turned towards his communications officer. "Where do we meet? Mr. Hill, if you would please tell them our coordinates. Oh, and what type of ship will we be meeting?"

The communications officer nodded and tapped on the device a couple times. He paused, listened for a bit, and nodded, and gaped. He typed a response message, then put down the radio. He shook his head, an excited gleam in his eyes. Deryn wondered what the Service told him.

"Well?" Matt asked, just as curious as she was.

"We'll be meeting a hydrogen breather, sir. Thousand-foot class."

Matt's eyebrows shot up, and Deryn felt her own do the same. "A thousand-foot class? Really? Isn't that about the largest one they've got?"

Mr. Hill nodded. "Yes, sir. They're sending the _Leviathan_."


	2. Perspicacious Project

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks for the reviews :)

A couple of you mentioned that this should be in the Crossover section — I do realize that, but I think this story is less of a crossover and more like a retelling of the original _Leviathan_ canon, with extra characters. Aside from that, I also think crossovers do not get as much visitors as normal stories do, so I'll leave this here for now.

* * *

Kate put down the pair of binoculars and put a hand to her stomach. The London sky was still dark and trembling from what's left of the morning storm's anger, but the worst had passed. The annoying lightning flashes had stopped, and the platter of rain on the windows was much quieter than before. She wondered whether or not the storm had forced him to change course. _Sometime around noon_, he had wrote in the last letter to her.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Cruse," came a voice from the door of the lab.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Barlow," Kate replied, glancing back. Dr. Nora Barlow strode into the room, her bowler hat perched impeccably on her head, her rather statuesque figure wrapped in a simple black cloak. "Where's Tazza?"

"I left him to play with some Bengal tiger cubs."

"I see." Kate took one last forlorn look at the sky, and hopped off the windowsill.

"Stormwatching?" Dr. Barlow asked, nodding at the binoculars. "Or birdwatching? Our zoo has an extensive avian collection, if that interests you."

Kate smiled. "Neither. I was shipwatching, if you could call it that."

Dr. Barlow blinked, which was the greatest extent of her surprise in any circumstance that Kate had seen. "Shipwatching," she repeated, walking over to the lab bench. "Care to elaborate?"

"The _Aurora_," Kate explained. "She's not coming to London, but my husband said she should be quite close by around noon."

"Ah, yes, your husband the astralnaut. He went back to being a sky sailor, did he?" A wry smirk appeared on her lips. "Sometimes I forget how _young_ you are, Dr. Cruse, and newly-wed besides. Lovesick?"

Kate blushed. "Just haven't seen him in a while. And I have some news for him that I want to tell him in person."

Dr. Barlow frowned, then noticed Kate's hand holding her navel. She raised an eyebrow.

"_Gravida?_"

Kate blushed again. "_Gravida_," she confirmed.

"Oh dear. Congratulations."

"Thank you. I found out rather recently, myself."

"For your sake, though, I hope you will have finished most of your work before you start to swell. It isn't very comfortable looking through microscopes with a bloated stomach, speaking from personal experience."

Kate sighed. "I was worried about that, too. Fortunately, there's not much left to do."

"That is good to hear. Yours is very vital work, I'm afraid. Have you managed to solve the telekineses problem?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant. Did you end up targeting the tubulin?"

"I tweaked their kinetochores a little. That did the trick."

"Excellent work!" Dr. Barlow said warmly. But then she blinked a bit, and clasped a hand to her forehead. "Heavens, I almost forgot why I came here in the first place. Do you follow current events, Dr. Cruse?"

"Somewhat."

"Then do you know of what happened last night?"

Kate shook her head. "No, I haven't had the time to read the papers."

"Ah. Well, as it so transpired, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand of Ausria-Hungary — along with his wife Princess Sophie — were murdered in their sleep. In Sarajevo."

Kate gasped. "That's horrible! Isn't he the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne?"

"He _was_. Poison, they say — there's been a first-hand report that the Archduke and Princess retired to their chambers early, saying they were dizzy and numb from travel. The bodies were found later to be paralyzed."

"That must be neurotoxin. Perhaps tetrodotoxin?"

Dr. Barlow nodded. "Easy to extract, fatal with a tiny dose, and no known antidote; my guess as well."

"I wouldn't have thought the Serbians were bold enough to murder the heir of a powerful enemy."

"Perhaps it was not the Serbians, or at least not them alone. But alas, we have no information beyond the fact that the Archduke is dead. Are you well versed with the political situation of Europa?"

Had this been four months ago, when Kate had just joined the Society as Dr. Barlow's research associate, she might have wondered what a scientist was doing worrying about politics. Now, after participating in countless meetings, she knew that Dr. Barlow was just as influential as any member of the Cabinet, if not more so. Britain was the home of Darwinism, the might of fabrications had raised her empire to the preeminent position it enjoyed today, and Dr. Barlow was one of her most important scientists, and a Darwin besides. The Zoological Society, of which she was vice-chair, was like an independent division of the British government responsible for diplomacy, espionage, and weapons development. The Society had networks all over the globe — in fact, the insufferable Sir Hugh Snuffler was the Head of the Canadian Branch. He certainly hadn't been thrilled to learn of Kate's position.

Kate brought her mind back to the matter at hand. She had been brought on board originally because of her expertise with the aerozoan — the creature had evolved a never-before-seen electrogenesis cycle, which held the key to a cost-efficient and utterly safe air fleet. However, being a member of the Society for four long months had taught her a great deal about politics and diplomacy. She thought about the aftermath of this assassination, her mind recalling the delicate alliances that united and separated the Darwinist and Clanker superpowers.

"Well," she said, thinking aloud, "to start it off, Austria-Hungary would not stand for Serbia's act of aggression, which means war. Russia will defend Serbia and declare war on Austria-Hungary. Germany, and maybe Italy, will honor their agreement with Austria-Hungary and declare war on Russia. Next will be France, which is allied with Russia. And after France…"

"It will be us. And you — if Britain goes to war, Canada will answer."

Kate took a deep breath. "And so will the rest of her holdings — Australia, New Zealand, India, Malaya. Basically, Europa is facing total war, which might spread across the globe. Good to know, I suppose."

Dr. Barlow laughed. "It's not quite as simple as that, I'm afraid. You're missing a key player here — a weakening empire right between Europa and Asia."

Kate understood immediately. "The Ottomans."

The scientist nodded. "That's the second piece of news I'm bringing to you today. Soon after the assassination, our great Admiralty made the _wise_ decision to withhold the delivery of the _Osman_… and its behemoth."

The _Osman_ was a powerful bio-dreadnought said to be one of the most advanced vessels ever designed, on par in battle power with Britain's famed _Excalibur_ class. However, what made it so deadly was its companion creature, something called a behemoth, fabricated by Dr. Barlow's research team. It was, of course, supposed to be secret, though thanks to her new position, Kate had access to data pertaining to the mighty seabeast. It was an ugly creature as large as an entire dreadnought itself, armed with tree-trunk-thick tentacles, a mouth wide enough to swallow submersibles whole, and extreme acidity in its stomach to melt down anything unlucky enough to find their way down its gullet. The Ottomans, if rumors could be trusted, had spent every last pound in their treasury purchasing both.

"Aren't they already paid for, in full?" Kate asked, knowing they were.

"Sadly, yes. We received the last payment from the Ottomans just last week."

"And your Admiralty _still_ wants to withhold the delivery."

"It's very unfortunate that Winston is a bloated piece of — pardon me — clart." For the first time since she's met Dr. Barlow, the scientist's cheeks was colored an angry red. "I did my best to advise against this, but he insisted."

"But the Ottomans control the Sea of Marmara; if you anger them, Russia will be at their mercy. And if war is really coming, wouldn't it be best to engage the Germans on two fronts?"

"Precisely my argument! It's _such_ a pleasure to talk to an intelligent young woman — both the Admiralty and the Cabinet are full of arrogant, ignorant men." She sighed, and readjusted her bowler hat. Kate always refused to wear one of those since Matt thought it made her look insufferable, but it was right at home atop Dr. Barlow's head. "If a war between Darwinists and Clankers starts, and the Ottomans allied with the enemy, the war might be lost."

"Is there anything you can do? Or plan to?"

"We shall try to negotiate with the Ottomans and see what we can give them for this delay in delivery."

Kate sniffed. "They _only_ spent their entire treasury and most of their citizen's money on this ship. I'm sure they will be quite negotiable."

Dr. Barlow's eyes twinkled with amusement. "This is why I like you, Dr. Cruse. You're right, of course, but I do have a little something I've been working on for the past six years. I hope to present it to the Sultan to sway him to our cause."

"I seem to remember the Ottomans were Clankers. Do they take kindly to fabrications?"

"They were ready to buy a behemoth, weren't they? In any event, it's not a creature of war — it's not big at all. It's more like a pet and an advisor rolled into one."

"And it's supposed to change an angry sovereign's mind?"

"We can only hope. Do you want to see it?"

Kate shrugged. "What is it, anyway?"

"I call it the Perspicacious Loris." Dr. Barlow's otherwise serene face betrayed a crack of excitement. "I keep them in the incubator in lab 9. Come! You can tell me how you modified the kinetochores along the way."

ooo

"Pardon me, Doctor, but what exactly do they _do_?"

Kate was currently leafing through the experiment notes of the perspicacious loris, her brows furrowed in concentration. Aside from the South Orient slow loris, the fab contained life threads from the chimpanzee, the bonobo, the bottlenose dolphin, and several species of whales; all creatures with large brains and documented ability to recognize themselves in a mirror. The creature also had parrot vocal chords and the hearing of the fruit bat, so Kate assumed it could talk and hear very well. She could see why this project had taken Dr. Barlow six years to bring to fruition — there was a lot of tweaking in brain development, and the brain was delicate business. Most of the tweaks seemed to be focused on expediting and expanding neuron formation.

"Do you know what perspicacious means?" Dr. Barlow asked.

Kate nodded. "So their only job is to be bright? And do whatever lorises do?"

"Partly that, yes. Did you see what I removed?"

"You got rid of the neuroseverins that destroyed neural connections, and knocked out the life threads that kept the brain from developing further beyond sexual maturity."

"The loris will be a _very_ quick learner."

"Hmm. You also enhanced the production of neurotransmitters. Are you trying to make it schizophrenic?"

Dr. Barlow laughed. "No, no. I'm trying to make it be able to connect the dots from information it collects, and piece together a conclusion faster than any human analyst."

"A living data processor. Oh, I see — gosh, its frontal lobes are huge. And… is that duck?"

"Yes! I borrowed their nascent fixation pathway. The loris will be attached to whoever they first see after hatching."

"It seems you've also emphasized the sociability of the primate and dolphin life threads."

"Yes. I want them to be able to communicate with each other, and share information."

Kate nodded absent-mindedly, and flipped a few more pages, taking in the full extent of Dr. Barlow's work. It gave her the unnerving notion that the scientist had been trying to recreate a human being — stuck in a loris body — without using any actual human life threads. Obeying the fundamental laws of fabrication her grandfather had set forth. She skipped pages and pages of tables and charts, and arrived at the proposed sketch of a full-grown perspicacious loris. It looked cute at least — in an ugly, infantile way.

Kate put down the research notes and shook her head. "This is incredible work, Dr. Barlow, but I still don't understand how it's supposed to turn the tide of war. As far as I see, these are smart, talking, and borderline psychotic lorises that can perhaps chat with you when you're bored, or remind you where you put your hat."

The scientist looked a little offended. "I make a point of never taking off my hat, Dr. Cruse."

"I didn't mean that. What I meant was —"

"I realize your concern. I was rather hoping to use the loris to let the Sultan see the potential and usefulness of fabrication. They can be gifts to other sovereigns as well. Imagine what would happen when all the leaders of each great nation possessed a perspicacious loris of their own?"

"They can all have a loris tea party and be friends forever," Kate said dryly. "After the tea party, the Kaiser will still call his stormwalkers to shoot everyone dead, from what I've heard about him."

"No, no, you've missed the point. While the leaders are conferencing, their own lorises will each be able to access all the contents of these conferences, and pass information back and forth. It will be a basis of mutual trust and cooperation."

"More likely a reason for them to lock the lorises up whenever they're conferencing. I may be a novice at diplomacy, Doctor, but I doubt it will work like that."

Dr. Barlow sighed, and Kate was surprised to find her looking a little dejected. "Very well, believe what you will," she said.

"I'm sorry. I know you've worked on them for a long time." Kate thought of how she had felt when the scientific community hadn't believed her ideas about the cloud cat, and felt a surge of sympathy for Dr. Barlow. "I'm sure they will play some role in this mess, before everything ends. Will they hatch on time?"

"Perhaps, depending on the situation. If war comes too quickly I may be forced to raise the incubation temperature and hatch them more quickly."

"Will that damage the embryo?"

"There is that risk, yes. And I'd have to time them to hatch in front of the targeted sovereign — the Sultan isn't likely to sit around waiting for an egg to hatch." Dr. Barlow shook her head, and patted the top of her bowler hat. "But that's not your burden to worry about."

They talked for a while more, until one of Dr. Barlow's numerous assistants barged in, babbling something about barnacles and gill-suits. Kate took this as her cue to leave. As she was stepping out of the incubation room, Dr. Barlow called out.

"Dr. Cruse?"

Kate turned around. "Yes?"

"Thank you for giving me your honest opinion. And don't work too late; you _are_ carrying another life, after all."

ooo

Looking out of the generous window of her living room, the cloudless night skies of London was filled with pinpricks of starlight. Kate combed her damp hair into a bunch, tugging at the unruly strands. Almost insensibly, her eyes trailed towards the Draco constellation, off its majestic tail, to the little star that was hers. It twinkled at her merrily, and she felt the same pang of longing that accompanied her to sleep each night.

It was harder to live alone than she had previously thought. After falling out with her parents, the Parisian mansion they'd bought for her had been taken back and sold, all the maids and servants and chauffeurs dismissed, and finally even Marjorie. Honestly she hadn't expected her parents to go so far, and it hurt to think they were once the people she loved most in the world.

But then for the next two months, Matt had moved out of his Academy dorm, rented an apartment in Paris, and they had lived together . The life was inconvenient, the apartment small and far away from both the university and the Academy, but it was one of the happiest times she had ever experienced. She imagined his voice now, speaking to her softly from behind as he wrapped his arms around her belly: _"Aren't you coming to bed yet? Don't stay up too late, it's not good for the baby."_

_Our baby_, she would correct him, and turn around to kiss him. The thought made her smile — she rubbed her still-flat abdomen, wondering if the tiny bit of life growing inside her was a girl or a boy. Matt must be over the Atlantic by now, making his steady way towards Lionsgate City, and she imagined his expression when she tells him, in August when he finally had a three-week long shore leave, and they were finally scheduled to meet. They had everything planned out — a trip touring the British Columbia coast, just the two of them. _A proper honeymoon_, he'd wrote in the letter, _since I owe you one!_ She could even envision the location; mountains to the back, on the deck of a cruise boat, telling him about their little family's incoming new addition.

Now, she was living alone in an apartment much too vast, with no maids, no servants, and not even Marjorie. An impassive chauffeur would pick her up and drive her to the London Zoo each morning, and send her back each evening. She was very glad now that Matt had taught her how to wash her own clothes, but since she was hopeless at any sort of cooking, she often waited until lunch before she had something to eat. She winced as she imagined what Matt might say to this, especially now that she was pregnant.

With a sigh, she gave her defiant hair a final tug. Doing one's hair was an unexpectedly difficult business, and she felt a grudging respect for Marjorie, who could always fix up her hair, quickly if need be. Matt had also managed, somehow, despite him being a boy. Must be something he was taught while growing up amidst three women. Wandering to her room, Kate slumped down on her bed, aware of how sharply it reminded her of his absence. Plus, she tended to start missing _everyone_ in these moments of quiet — from her parents, to Marjorie, to the tiny feisty Ellie, and even Matt's little sisters — though she wasn't sure she liked it.

Later, as she was falling asleep in the cool summer night air from the open windows, Kate wondered if war would really erupt on a continent where the major powers had managed to stay out of conflict for most of the last fifty years, and over something so seemingly trivial. She wondered what role her research would play, and Dr. Barlow's mysterious lorises.

As the moon rose over the streets of London and the city's constant biomimic buzz finally died down, she imagined a negotiation table with distinguished gentlemen and global leaders, each with a loris perched on their shoulders.

"Might not be such a bad idea after all," she muttered to herself, and went to sleep with a tiny smile.


	3. Voyage & Visitors

**Author's Notes:**

I changed up some points in the previous chapter: I realized that having the _Behemoth_ be a submersible would not work, so I changed it back to being the _Osman_'s companion creature, as per canon.

* * *

The spires of Lionsgate City poked up through the blanket of mist and the surrounding mountains, and Matt sighed contentedly. He'd forgotten how good a homecoming could feel. The airship's steering wheels hummed underneath his fingers with her engine's pitch, slow and steady like a gentle lullaby guiding his sure way home.

A large array of reports from speaking tubes around the bridge were being made in quick order as the airship neared the city's rather impressive aeroharbor — none so large as Paris' Heliodrome, of course, but still magnificently pristine besides the vast airfield set to the sides, out of the way of the usual hustle and bustle. Matt adjusted the controls accordingly, and the _Aurora_ made her graceful arc around the outer fringes of the city, gently aligning herself to avoid catching the wind. They had been instructed to wait for the clearance of the largest airfield, the only one here that had enough length and breadth to accommodate a 900-foot airliner with ease.

Not that they couldn't land in the smaller ones, since the breeze was light and the weather fine, and Matt had no doubt he and his crew could make it, but he supposed it was better to not take unnecessary risks.

It was approaching midmorning, though near the flat expanse of the airfield, the thin mist that hung about the rest of the city had been dispersed by the first fleeting rays of the sun. They were scarcely two miles distant, now, and with a small reluctance, Matt called for his third officer to wake Captain Rideau, who had been on watch for the better part of the night and was no doubt sleeping in his cabin. Protocol dictated that a captain had to be on the bridge for landing and take-off, no matter how capable his acting officers were at handling matters in his absence.

"Shouldn't you also be telling me to wake the passengers?" a voice asked from behind. Matt smiled as he turned to face the ship's second steward, his friend Baz Hilcock. Of the many changes in crew during his years at the Academy, he was glad that Baz hadn't been among them — the ship was little enough like the old _Aurora_, without Captain Walken's steady leadership and chef Vlad's cooking, but more of the now-Captain Rideau's stern disapproval. But the _Aurora_ was the _Aurora_, and it would always be his home aloft. He still had to suppress a grin every now and then when he neared the cargo bays, remembering the bold and beautiful auburn-haired girl stepping off her ornithopter with chaperone in tow.

"They're asleep still?" he replied, a little sarcastic edge in his voice. Some officers listening to this exchange laughed — for sky sailors, a seven hours' night's rest was the most anyone could hope for, not counting the time taken from it to eat and socialize. Most of the people they were ferrying, however, slept usually nine or more hours at a time, and many of them did not have the habit to rise before eleven.

"I have my bugle ready, never fear," Baz said cheerfully. "How long are we waiting?"

"We've half an hour yet, judging from the queue," he said, a little bit wistful, for he thought he would not mind seeing some of the first class passengers woken by a bugle.

"Are we still behind schedule?"

"Yeah. After this wait, we'll be almost three hours behind."

"People will grumble about that. They're always in such a hurry to leave," Baz said, shaking his head.

Matt grinned. "Just feed them fresh croissants. Solves any problems."

Baz laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before he disappearing back through the bridge door. Despite being three years older, the easy-going Australian had remained one of Matt's closest friends even during the years he spent in Paris, and they were each other's best men during their respective weddings. It was a strange notion, to think that he and Baz had both been young cabin boys just four years ago; now, they were both married, with a stable family and a stable career, and back together on the same ship. A very nice turn of fate.

Chuckling, he set out to do another check of the ship's ballast boards and airsacs. When Captain Rideau comes to the bridge he'd likely be cranky from the lack of sleep, and Matt didn't fancy letting him find a small flaw just so he could vent his irritation. Goodness knew how little the Captain thought of his first officer; the strict commander had taken it upon himself to blame every small scrap of mismanagement on Matt. Had Sir Otto Lunardi — knighted for the space expedition — not insisted Matt be put onboard the _Aurora_, Captain Rideau would've never had him.

Matt supposed that Captain Rideau's undue attention also served, in a perverse fashion, as a way to protect him from those who were disgruntled or even jealous of his swift rise from cabin boy to second-in-command — if they saw how badly he were treated by the Captain, they might not think his position so enviable after all. All the same, though, whether or not it was for maintaining the good atmosphere of the ship, a captain certainly didn't have to _enjoy_ picking on his first officer _quite_ so much.

Said Captain presently came onto the bridge just after the ground station radioed permission to land. Matt sighed — it appeared he would not be able to command the landing after all. He always enjoyed watching the massive airship lower herself down, while controlling the very ratio of her buoyancy. He had taken it upon himself to waste as little hydrium as possible every landing, and rejoiced each time in beating his own records.

"Status report, Cruse," snapped Captain Rideau, walking around the bridge to survey the condition. To his disappointment perhaps, everything was shipshape.

"We just got radioed permission to land, sir," Matt said succinctly, smiling inwardly at this small triumph. "Airfield C3 is now clear. We are to make our approach due southeast."

The Captain nodded, scowled some more, and stepped up to the command post as Matt stepped aside. After a few more minutes of finding nothing to complain of — even the weather was gorgeous— he sighed in his usual surly way and dismissed Matt to make the landing announcements to the passengers. Matt took a last forlorn look at the panorama of the bridge, before saluting and making his way to the A deck lounges where most of the passengers were sure to be.

Here he found them indeed, most drowsing on armchairs, some looking out the windows. A few cabin boys and stewards were making their rounds, taking orders for drinks and light snacks. There wasn't time for a full breakfast, but if his years on the _Aurora_ had taught him anything, it was that passengers were nearly always hungry. It also annoyed him how little they cared about the amazing ship that carried their lazy carcasses around the globe. They have sailed well over _six thousand miles_, seen everything from the deep blue depths of the Atlantic to the great wilderness of the Arctic tundra, but all their passengers seemed to care about was the menu for the next meal.

But alas, they were paying customers, and he shook those thoughts away. He strode over to the center of the room, mentally rehearsing his speech one last time. This part was always a little embarrassing for him, because one, he saw very little reason for the announcement, and two, he was not used to too much attention. All the same he cleared his throat and said it loudly, making sure his voice can be heard all over the lounge: the ship was landing in about twenty minutes, the weather and temperature of Lionsgate City, reminders about their passports, sincere apologies for the wait and the delay and thanking them for their understanding, the crew at their service for food and refreshments, and on, and on, and on, until finally, "On behalf of the Captain and the Lunardi Line, we thank you for choosing to fly with us, and hope you have enjoyed your journey; it has been our pleasure to serve all of you, and we hope that in the future we will have a chance to do so again. Thank you."

He let out a breath and bowed as the lounge clicked into polite applause, from those who were awake to hear the speech anyway, and his cheeks reddened as he saw Baz among one of the crew hanging out by the sides, the Australian's face a wry smirk. Matt remembered this same speech from back when he was still a cabin boy, done by the then-first-officer Rideau, and it had always struck him as a bit shallow and insincere. Even more so now, he imagined, coming from a blushing eighteen-year-old instead of a serious, matter-of-fact veteran officer.

Fortunately the passengers were shortly occupied with their refreshments and of the view of the city, Lionsgate Bridge visible in the far distant, the strengthening sunrise to the east spilling dashes of orange and yellow on the mist and skyscrapers. The vista was finally enough to render anyone into quiet admiration, and Matt smiled as he felt the familiar excitement of homecoming. There was only time for a minor shore leave, two days including this one, but he hadn't been properly home for three months and was very much looking forward to seeing his family again. Elena was about to turn one as well, and the thought of the feisty baby sent a warm rush through his heart. He wondered if she could talk yet, and made a mental note to share news of the baby with Kate.

Instantly he felt a pang of longing. They might be newly-wed, but they had not even been together three days after their wedding before their respective duties drew them away from each other again, and the last time they saw each other was on his birthday back in May; he'd even missed hers. It seemed torture to have to wait now until mid-August to see her, especially after having been so close to London. That was another month and a half of nothing but letters and telegrams to keep in touch.

As he made his way to his own cabin to pack his stuff which he didn't have a chance to last night, he felt the airship sink very slightly — the ground crew must have latched on, and was helping to pull her in. The rest of the landing went by quickly and swimmingly, though the ship had to be walked to the hangar, and only then everyone could properly disembark. The lumbering passengers took quite a while to do so, looking not at all like people who were late, or in a hurry. The luggage were lowered onto the ground, and a crowd was hanging about there, picking out their own. A thin group of welcomers were also about, and Matt saw many of the ladies and gentlemen helped to their own biomotor cars while the rest of their attendants dragged over the luggage. As an officer, he had to stand crisply by the ship as all this hustle and bustle occurred, and it was nearly noon before the very last stragglers dispersed through the hangar entrance.

"Well, that's the last o' them," Baz grumbled beside him. Matt smiled.

"You just want to go to a bar," he said. "Not as if you're in much of a hurry."

"Ey, I know how you feel about liquor Matt, but don't go around saying as if it's an unredeemable sin to grab a drink or two from time to time," Baz said, nudging him with his shoulders. "In any case, I wasn't planning on drinkin'."

"Really?"

"You bloody loon, don't got to sound so _suspicious!_" Baz laughed. "I just wanted to see this Ellie you kept going on about."

"You saw her at the wedding!"

"Aye, that was _months_ ago, and she was mostly sleepin'. Babies grow fast, don't they?"

"Not as fast as your belly if you keep on with your drinking — ow, alright, alright." He grinned, and unexpectedly discovered how much he loved the idea. Baz and his wife Teresa weren't planning on children yet (to be fair, Ellie hadn't exactly been _planned_, either), but Baz was always yammering about how cute Ellie was and how he'd like a daughter as well.

"So that's a yes?"

"Yeah, alright. But who are you kidding? You know you're welcome at our place any time."

Baz humphed somewhat smugly. "Don't forget, I'm also her godfather. I have exclusive visitation rights — oof."

"Just don't teach her any strange things!"

ooo

They got to the Cruse's house just in time for lunch. As soon as they stepped out of the cab, Matt was greeted by an indignant "You're late! Why are you so late?" before he got tackled onto the grass by Isabelle. He laughed and hugged her close as she planted kisses on his cheeks. The smell of flowers was all around them, the small yard full of growth and all of them in the full bloom of summer.

"Izzie, get up, you'll dirty his uniform," said Sylvia from the door, managing to sound rather snobbish. "Oh, hello, Mr. Hilcock," she said, noticing and suddenly back to a formal young lady.

"Syl, Izzie, how do you do?"

"Very well, thank you. Please excuse, er…" She shrugged helplessly at her brother and her younger sister. Not knowing what to do, she shouted, "Mom! They're here!"

"It sure is nice to have siblings," Baz said.

"Not when they're pure evil it's not! Oi, Izzie, stop that!"

"Never!" Izzie cried, and proceeded to tickle her brother to a red-faced, panting mess, or at least until Mrs. Cruse came out to rescue her son.

"Oh, _enough!_ What are you doing to my poor flowers?" she called down now from the door, looking at the two of them with a merry twinkle in her eyes. Picking grass and dirt from his hair, Matt stood up with the help of his sisters and grinned.

"Hey, Mom," he said. "Sorry I'm a bit late."

"A _bit?_" cried Izzie indignantly.

"You're taller than your father now," his mother said after a few moments. "Hello, Baz! Welcome. Matt hadn't told me you were coming."

"I hope I'm not too much of a bother."

"Not at all, not at all!" she said, and the tiny sorrow that had settled in her eyes dissipated. "Come in, come in, perfect timing actually. We were just about to have lunch."

Just then, a tiny face peeked from behind her legs, and Matt blinked. Big, blue eyes with delicate features, currently wearing a timid expression.

"Ellie!" he cried as he rushed forward. The little head retreated back a little, her pale little fingers curled around the skin of Mom's legs. Matt stopped, overjoyed.

"She can walk now?" Baz exclaimed, and the two of them bent down with their hands on their knees, peering at the toddler. "Golly, Matt, I _told_ you they grow fast!"

Mrs. Cruse looked down. "Oh, goodness, Ellie, I thought I told you to wait! But yes, as you can see, she can take quite a few steps. She's a _very_ quick learner — but with some temper!"

"She was playing in the yard once," Izzie interjected, "when Darcy — that's the neighbor's dog — came around at her. I was sitting on the porch and I was just about to go chase it away when she yelled and hit it on the nose!"

"_And_ she didn't cry, at all," added Sylvia, proud as if it were her own accomplishment. "Didn't you, Ellie?"

The baby cooed at her and gurgled, and as they all watched, she walked out from under the shelter of Mom's legs in wobbly steps, and stopped, scrutinizing the newcomers.

"She's got your eyes, mate," Baz whispered, suddenly hushed as if he was afraid of disturbing the child. "Look at them! That sky blue."

"Yeah," said Matt, his chest puffing up in pride. "I've often been told."

"That's our papa's eyes as well," Sylvia informed him. "It's no fair Matt's the only one who got it."

"I think brown eyes are good on you too, Syl," Matt said soothingly, suppressing a smile.

"They're so _plain_," she said.

"Oh, hush up Sylvia, stop complaining about your eye color. Ellie," Mrs. Cruse called down. "Look who's here?"

"Hey, Ellie," Matt said, softly. "Do you remember me?"

"Or me?" Baz said, then added somewhat dejectedly, "I reckon you won't; the last time I saw you, you were sleeping your adorable little head off."

Ellie looked between the two young men, scrunched up her face a little, and cooed some more. From one of her hands trailed a doll, and she stood there studying the two of them with what almost seemed to be sentience, not just the evanescent curiosity of toddlers. Then, to Matt's astonishment, she walked another few steps to him, and held out her arms for a hug.

"Papa," she said, then gurgled.

Everyone gasped.

"Did she just say Papa?" Izzie asked, wide-eyed with breathless joy. "Ellie, did you just say Papa?"

In response, Ellie smiled broadly at her and muttered some incomprehensible baby jabber. But the one word had been enough — there was no doubt in Matt's mind. Ellie gurgled again and held out her tiny arms higher, and almost in a daze, Matt bent down to pick up his daughter, who he hadn't seen in three months, and who still remembered him. His own heart felt like it could scarcely beat any faster, the love coursing within was so torrential and sharp and fierce. He felt his vision blurring a little, felt Ellie's soft tiny fingers pinching his cheeks.

"Hi," he whispered to her. "Hi, Ellie. Hello."

"Papa," she said, then laughed. This time, every one of them was ready for her words, and at once the two girls exploded into exuberant squealing, and Baz said numerous variations of "Oh my God, she called you Papa, mate!" Matt was surprised to see his mother wiping away a tear — but then he too was on the verge of crying.

"You sneaky little girl!" Izzie cried as she took one of Ellie's tiny hands and watched it grab onto her finger. "You could talk!"

"You mean, she's never talked before?" He was barely able to keep his unsteady voice from breaking.

"No! 'Papa' was her first word!"

Matt could no longer resist, and kissed Ellie full on the cheek, again and again. The baby's small, soft body was radiating warmth even in the noonday sun, and her tiny hands were touching around his chin, his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, her fingers like tickling tendrils of silk. Her gurgling laughter was the dearest thing he'd ever heard. She smelled of soap and milk, and her little spine in his hand felt fragile but full of restless energy. She was no doubt the most precious person in the world to him, aside from Kate.

"You ought have told us you could talk," Sylvia said with mock severity to the baby, who cooed at her and giggled, grabbing fistfuls of Matt's hair.

"Papapa," she said, beating on his head like a drum. Matt kissed her again, and she seemed to like it for she screeched in delight and wriggled in his arm.

"But how?" he asked, looking around at his family. "I haven't been home for —"

"Well, you better thank _me_," Izzie huffed. "_I'm_ the one who took her to your photograph every day and pointed it out to say Papa."

"No, that was _my_ idea!" said Sylvia, and the two girls started to argue.

"Oh, heavens," Mom said. "Stop that, you two! Here, let me help you boys take that in."

"No, no, I'm fine, Mrs. Cruse."

"Yeah, just go ahead, Mom."

Matt went back to the yard to pick up his small suitcase, hefting it with his free hand. Then, after making sure that Ellie wouldn't bump her head on the side frames, he stepped into the house, his two sisters and his friend closely behind.

The place hadn't changed much since the last time he visited, except round toys now lay on tables and chairs, and he saw stacks of clean diapers tucked away in the corner. There were hints of crayon stains on an otherwise spotless wall, and Matt winced, for he knew how much Mom prided herself on a cleanly household. Taking care of a baby was exhausting work, and he felt guilty for leaving it to her.

"Oh, nonsense," she said when he thanked her and apologized. "She's a perfect little lady; aren't you, Ellie? Yes you are."

Ellie clapped and giggled.

"Plus," Mom said, "I dare say you'd do a very bad job of it if I left her in your hands — or Kate's for that matter. That's why I didn't want you two to take her to Paris, back when you asked me."

Baz snickered from behind, and Matt kicked back at his shin.

"I thought it was because you said you would miss her!"

"That's just part of it," she said defensively. "But also because I would worry too much if I left her to you two."

"All seriousness mate, if you had time to live with Kate alone, at your age, you wouldn't want a baby soiling things. Part o' the reason Teresa and I don't want one, not yet."

"Yes, Baz is exactly right. You were both still in school. Did you think you could take care of Ellie while handling all the school and housework?"

Matt frowned. "Well, Kate I can understand, but still, Mom, _I'm_ not that bad, am I? I helped take care of Izzie, at least."

"You hardly knew how to change a diaper," she chided him, with some amusement. "The most you did was recite the stories your Papa told you."

"And he _always_ botched them up," Izzie added, indignant and dodging a half-hearted swing of Matt's suitcase. "Papa told them much better. Kate _would_ be worse than you, though, I admit. She would probably misplace Ellie in the microscope cabinet or something."

"I _could_ see that happening," Baz muttered, and Matt gave him another kick.

The smells of baking fish and pasta sauce wafted from the kitchen, and Matt and Baz set down their suitcases in the living room before they all went to the dining room. Izzie and Sylvia plopped themselves down to his either side, though when Matt tried to get Ellie to sit in her high chair, she started squalling, and it was only with the lure of her milk bottle that she let go.

"She's a little handful," Mrs. Cruse said adoringly as she cut out large pieces of the delicious-smelling fish. The baby in question was draining the bottle's contents with truly impressive speed. "Quite like Sylvia when she was small," she added, to Sylvia's indignant "Hey!".

Izzie, in the mean time, was repeating "Auntie" very loudly in Ellie's ears and pointing to herself, evidently trying to expand the baby's vocabulary. Ellie ignored her aunt's antics, finished the bottle, burped contentedly, and finally held out her hands towards Matt once more.

"Papa," she said, and Izzie saw her chance slipping away. She put her face in front of Elena.

"Auntie!" said the girl in a last ditch effort, gesturing wildly to herself. "I'm auntie. Say, auntie. Awn-tee."

"Papa," Elena replied, unperturbed, and gurgled. She held out her hand once more, and Izzie sank back to her chair in defeat. Matt couldn't help but laugh.

"It's not a bit fair," Izzie said in a pout. "Just because 'Papa' is easier to pronounce than 'Auntie'! And I bet it's just because she hasn't seen you, you're getting all the attention." She pushed her fish around, stared balefully at the baby, and proceeded to sulk. Matt leaned over to pick up the baby from her high chair and kissed her soft cheeks. The baby's hands grabbed at the collars of his shirt and, intrigued by the texture perhaps, lingered there to stay.

"Well," Sylvia said, daintily putting down her fork, "even if she _does_ say auntie, it'll be me she says it to."

"No it won't!"

"Yes it will. I'm the older auntie."

"That doesn't matter!"

"Girls!" Mrs. Cruse said, exasperated. "Please, just _one_ lunch without bickering."

They both grumbled into their fish.

"Hmm, now that I think about it," Baz said, "what d'ya reckon she'll call me, then? I'm bound to be something long and difficult to pronounce."

"If you don't mind her calling your name, yours would be the shortest."

"Still not as easy as Papa!" chimed Izzie.

"It'll be Uncle, I'm sure," Mrs. Cruse smiled.

"Mom'll secretly teach her to say Grandma before she can say her next word," Matt joked. Mrs. Cruse looked indignant, but before she could respond, the doorbell rang.

Everyone around the table looked up. Even Ellie did.

"Gah?" she said.

"I'll go check who it is," Mom said as she got up from the table.

"I'll go too!" Izzie said and hopped down from her chair. Ellie, seeing nothing worthy of her attention, proceeded to writhe around in Matt's arms and dribble all over the place.

"Hey there Ellie," Matt said, grabbing a napkin and wiping her mouth. "Are you still hungry?"

"Burp," said Ellie. She poked up her tiny arms in a very impressive yawn, and smacked her lips together like she was chewing on imaginary food. "Papa," she said, evidently pleased with herself.

"Yeah?"

"She's telling you to get her to bed," Sylvia told him, a little smug.

"Oh," Matt said, cursing himself for an idiot. "Where is her —"

But before he could finish the sentence, his mother came bustling back in, looking very… puzzled. Izzie came bounding behind her.

"Mom," Matt said. "Who was —?"

"Baz, would you help hold her?" Mrs. Cruse asked, nodding at Ellie. "Matt, there are people here to see you. They are from the Ministry of Air."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Ellie (Elena) is not Kate's daughter; she is Nadira's (I'll eventually get to this in FFF). All anyone needs to know here is that Kate has agreed to be the mom, that Matt and Kate are both back on friendly terms with Nadira, and that most of the couple's closer friends know of this (e.g. Baz).


	4. Patriotic Propaganda

**Author's Notes:**

These mainly _Airborn_-based chapters are merely setting the scene for heavy-duty _Leviathan_ action, so please bear with me. Read and review as always :)

* * *

Matt made his way cautiously to the front of the house, his mother following behind him.

Two crisply dressed gentlemen stood in the small foyer, looking around. One of them, Matt realized abruptly, he recognized.

"Sir John?" he asked, tentative. And as the slim gentleman swiveled around to face him, Matt saw that he was indeed the Canadian Minister of Air.

"Ah, Mr. Cruse," he said. "How good of you to join us."

"Uh, thank you, sir. May I ask what we owe for your visit?"

"Now, now. Let's not be hasty." He chuckled, and gestured to his companion, who was a lot stouter, though muscular and barrel-chested. This one was in military full dress, and Matt spotted several stripes on his shoulders. "This is General Gordon," Sir John introduced.

The General bowed, stiff and light. "Mr. Cruse. Madam Cruse. My apologies for bothering you during lunch hours; my schedule is not very flexible."

He had a very pronounced accent, highly British, and his demeanor made the Cruse home seem like the Buckingham Palace. His presence was rather peculiar as well; as if he could choose, at will, whether or not to be noticed. His back was straight, his head high, and his calm grey eyes were pure logic and reason. No emotion.

Mrs. Cruse was all aflutter. "Oh, no, not at all, General, and Sir John. Um, would you perhaps like tea?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you. On behalf of our government as well, Madam Cruse, I thank your son for his exemplary service aboard the _Starclimber_ this past summer."

Matt felt himself blush. His mother, far from being flattered, made even more attempts to offer refreshments. Neither of them were accustomed to such stiff and formal praise — as far as Matt was concerned, the Expedition had been last year, and nobody ought mind it this much anymore. And he didn't like the way the General talked, as if the _Starclimber_ were a military exploit. All the same, he managed a simple "thank you, sir", and waited for further word.

They were all ushered into the living room after some agonizing seconds of standing around. Baz had rounded up his sisters and was probably keeping them out of sight, and for that Matt was grateful. His mother was in enough of a fright now without having to mind two girls and their tongues.

"So," Sir John said after a moment, when all their teas have been served, and biscuits laid out in the finest china Mrs. Cruse owned. "Let's get to business, shall we? Mr. Cruse, are you familiar with recent events?"

Matt had the very uncomfortable feeling of being back in the Academy, after Dean Pruss had just thrown him a trick question.

"Erm, no sir. Not in particular."

"But your wife is Dr. Katherine Cruse?"

"She is."

"Well. That does seem strange, given her involvement with the Zoological Society, which is also incidentally responsible for our nation's diplomacy —"

"My wife does not often share with me details of her work, sir," Matt interrupted. Sir John stared at him for a moment, before nodding.

"I see. I was rather hoping this would be made easier had she shared the news, but I suppose it _is_ a very recent development." He cleared his throat. "To be brief, Mr. Cruse, we have reason to believe that Great Britain may enter a large scale war in the immediate future."

Matt felt his jaw hang open. He could not stop himself. "What?" he said.

"Britain is heading for war," the General interjected. "I apologize for not having properly introduced myself, but I am General Robert Gordon, Commander of the Polaris Division, under His Majesty's Royal Air Service."

Matt blinked. The Polaris Division was Britain's most elite aerial combat corps, known for their advanced weaponry, high mobility, and efficiency. Members were chosen from amongst the best sky sailors in the Air Service and Aero Force, trained gruesomely for several years, and spent their lives protecting the interests of the Empire. It all sounded very harsh, and it was, but the Division had played decisive roles in the Boer Wars and the Anglo-Afghan Wars. Matt has not been acquainted with any members, though later he learned that Chuck Shepherd had been recruited, but turned down the position due to migraine. If the Division only recruited men of Shepherd's calibre, Matt had some idea what to expect of its brutality and efficiency. All the same, he wasn't sure why the General brought this up, and didn't know how to react.

"I have heard a lot about your Division, sir," he said in the end, neither a judgment nor a compliment.

"I have no doubt you have," the General replied. Quiet confidence rolled off him like cold drafts off the eternally frozen cliffs of the Antarctic. This was a man who had power, who knew he had power, and who knew that others knew he had power.

"Yes, quite," said Sir John. "You must be wondering why the head of the Polaris came here today, and —"

"Are you trying to ask my son to join the Division?" Mrs. Cruse asked, very suddenly. She had been listening from the side, grim and nodding, and Sir John jumped, probably having forgotten she was even there.

"Mom —" Matt said.

"We are not, ma'am," the General said. "We know your son is not interested in a military career." His cool eyes appraised Matt for a few seconds, and for that instant, there were pity and disgust in the grey pupils. Matt was taken aback by this open display of discrimination, which he had least expected to see in a fine gentleman such as the General.

"Oh, right," Mrs. Cruse said, and flushed red as if just now realizing how blunt and impolite she had been. "Of course, General. I was only concerned that —"

"Very natural, ma'am. We respect his choices. However, we _would_ like to ask him to train with the Division for a very brief duration."

There was a short silence in the room as Matt and his mother digested this piece of information.

"May I ask," he said slowly, "_why_ you want me to —"

"It is only for a week, Mr. Cruse," the General said. "Nice and easy."

"That isn't what I'm asking. I'm asking why —"

"Training in the Division can be useful in and of itself, without other reasons," the General said calmly.

"Look, sir, I am not going to —"

"You seem young and healthy. I assure you, we will put you on the least taxing regimen, and even Madam Cruse here would have no problem going through with that. That is, unless you find yourself rather… lacking?"

Matt bristled. He wasn't too athletic, but he was fit and agile, and it was hard to sit there and take it as the General linked his not serving in the military with cowardice and physical inadequacy. Sensing the swiftly rising arrogance in the General's voice perhaps, Sir John coughed.

"General, I don't believe you have touched upon the primary reason for this, admittedly sudden, request," he said soothingly. "Mr. Cruse, it is of course entirely optional. Please do not let us lead you to think otherwise." He gave the General a meaningful glance — which the man returned calmly.

"Oh, good," Matt said, his fist slowly unclenching. "I would hate to be dragged to somewhere I do not wish to go in a free country such as Canada."

"Which is, incidentally, part of the British Empire," the General added amiably. "Which is, again incidentally, on the brink of war. Naturally, her male citizens should have to do their duty as _patriots_ to protect their nation —"

"Canada has its own parliament, and does not enforce mandatory service."

"Some of us may find that _willingly_ serving the nation that sheltered us is the highest form of excellence."

"Well, my loyalties lie first and foremost to my family, and —"

"Your loyalties lie first and foremost to His Majesty, King George, and to suggest otherwise may be considered tantamount to treason."

Matt stood up.

"If you are here only to accuse me of _treason_, and for something as _childish_ as participation in military service, then please leave our house," he said, shaking with indignation and rage. "I am not interested in what you have to offer."

The General met his gaze, unflinching.

"It is not exactly respectful to call His Majesty's Armed Forces childish, _boy_."

If his mother weren't there, Matt was sure he'd have swung his fist.

"Gentlemen!" Sir John shouted, horrified and disgusted. They both dropped their gaze. "General, _please_ apologize," he said sternly.

And, like that, in the blink of an eye, the General reverted back to his charming, polite self. "Of course, sir. Mr. Cruse, I am greatly ashamed of my outburst. These were the words of a man of long and loving service, and I hope you will not dwell on them. Madam," he added, bowing lightly also to Mrs. Cruse, who had been watching with increasing alarm her son's exchange with perhaps one of the most powerful military leaders in the world. She nodded tersely back.

Matt slowly forced himself to sit down. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath.

"Likewise, sir," he said stiffly, after composing his words. "Your opinions of me are not… unfounded. I am indeed young and inexperienced, and I beg you forgive my own remarks."

"Certainly," said the General, who even had the nerve to give Matt a smile. He imagined if this were how Kate felt when meeting Sir Hugh Snuffler — wanting with all her strength to strangle the fat pompous neck before her. After all, they were both vastly influential, demeaning, and utterly insufferable. He thought back to the way she dealt with her anger, by imagining her hand buried deep within Sir Hugh's neck, and slowly the imaged drained away his rage like an outlet.

Sir John let out a sigh of relief as the living room returned back to peace. "Let us discuss the actual matter at hand, before anything else happens," he said wearily.

"By all means," said Matt, drily.

"I am all ears, Sir John," said the General.

Sir John glared at the both of them once more, before harrumphing importantly.

"Mr. Cruse. As you are now aware, our nation — due to our close connection with Britain — will shortly be entering war. And as you have _been_ aware, Canada does not have compulsory conscription. The Prime Minister… does not think we can scramble enough resources and manpower for an expeditionary force in a month."

"The war is in a month?" Matt asked, in high alarm. He had imagined something at least half a year away. Absurdly, all he could think about was, '_But what about my trip with Kate?_' He quickly shook the thought away. The last thing he needed when facing two very important officials was to get all lovesick over his wife.

"Well, yes and no," Sir John answered. "But it _will_ be soon. In less than a month, Austria-Hungary's ultimatum will run its course, and she will declare war on Serbia. What follows is an intricate system of checks and balances that have already been in place for several decades, like a ripple spreading in a still pond. We estimate another month, at _most_, after Austria-Hungary starts the war, before Britain will be forced to respond."

"To put it frankly, His Majesty's Government and the Admiralty have _no_ intention to be caught unawares," the General said. "We want a standing army stationed in France _when_ the war starts; not after. We want a large reserve of several battalions defending key cities in India, especially from the Afghani side. We need to strengthen our hold on Singapore and Malaya in case the enemy targets our commerce. We need impregnable defenses in Gibraltar and along the Suez. All of these will require soldiers — soldiers we do not have."

"Sirs, if I may…" ventured Mrs. Cruse, "but who _is_ the enemy?"

The two men exchanged a look.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't realized the answer wouldn't be obvious. The Clanker nations, ma'am. Austria-Hungary and the German Empire, perhaps Italy or the Ottomans, if we're unlucky."

"Even Italy?" Matt asked, then added, slightly red-faced, "sorry; neither me nor my mother are well-versed in global diplomacy."

"European diplomacy, rather," said the General, "since the globe _is_ mostly owned by Europa. Anyway, you now know our situation. The manpower we require numbers in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions. Australia and New Zealand will be organizing their ANZAC, which will provide part of the relief in the defense of India, but the European theatre must have Canadian input."

"What about the French? The Russians? Are they not your allies?"

"Not as clueless about diplomacy as we might believe, eh?" said Sir John.

The General, on the other hand, outright snorted. "Fah! The French," he said, "they have been losing every bloody war after the Napoleonic ones. And the Russians? Their bear cavalry costs them more than they can afford. Our policy is to not rely on our allies too much. If there is to be a war between Darwinist and Clanker, which there will be… Britain will have to shoulder the burden. Once again I stress, we _need_ troops."

"Which is why… you want me to go train for a week —"

"— or two," said the General. Sir John glared.

"A week, or two," Matt said, sighing, "with the Polaris Division… _for what, exactly?_"

"So we get voluntary enlistment."

"I understand that — actually, I _don't_, because how can me training with the Division be any help —"

"It's for a newsreel," the General said. "Advertisement. And you, Mr. Cruse, will be our star."

Of all the possible answers Matt could have anticipated, this one was not on his list.

"What?" he said.

"What?" his mother said, then covered her mouth, embarrassed.

"You will help — or, we hope you will help us — create a newsreel depicting yourself training," said Sir John. "You will then go on an actual mission with members of the Polaris Division to boost morale in recruits we already have."

"What?" Matt said again. He shook his head. "Sir, this won't work."

"Nonsense. Of course it will."

"You will be paid very well for your time, naturally," the General added. "If that is the problem."

"It's not! I mean, it might be, but this, this is —" Matt shrugged and looked helplessly at his mother.

"Might I ask your reasoning behind the decision, gentlemen?" interjected Mrs. Cruse.

"Certainly, ma'am," said Sir John. "As you know, your son's involvement in the expedition last year has propelled him to national renown."

"It has not," Matt said, somewhat horrified at the suggestion of such far-reaching fame. On his part, it had only been a few interviews and parades, nothing too serious. Plus, it had all been a long time ago; shouldn't people already have forgotten?

"It has," Sir John repeated more firmly. "Boys everywhere want to be like you. You are their role model, Mr. Cruse, especially so in Canada."

"But then, what about Tobias, or, or Captain Walken, or anyone else, really —"

"I'm afraid your role in the _Starclimber_'s safe return, as broadcasted by Ms. Karr's dispatches, have made you the most popular member of the expedition."

"But I didn't do anything! Dr. Turgenev —"

"Is a man of science, not young and strong and appealing to the masses. Then there is also the incident of your encounter with the pirate, and I know you think people forgot, but they have not. You are somewhat of a national hero, Mr. Cruse. It will be very beneficial to have you in our newsreels."

Matt slumped into his sofa.

"I still think there should be others —"

"Who, then, do you propose?"

"I don't know; singers, maybe, or actors, people who are _actually_ famous."

The General chuckled. "Young men don't want to see celebrities safely behind the front lines telling them to go enlist. They want to see someone like _them_, someone _their_ age who they consider a role model, serving his nation without hesitation even through harsh training. They will follow you, make no mistake of that. We will also ask your permission for us to contact your wife, who will —"

"I don't make decisions for her," Matt said, rubbing his temples, feeling worn out. "If you want her to appear in your newsreels as well, go ask her yourselves." Then he looked up. "If she agrees, will we be able to meet?"

"You have accepted, then?"

"Will we be able to meet?"

Sir John coughed. "Likely not," he admitted. "If she agrees, we will film her in London where she is, and depict her and our scientists hard at work developing new technologies for our nation. Of course, she too was a popular member of the expedition, and the species she discovered has captivated public imagination, so I think she will be a valuable addition."

Matt sighed. "I guess I have no reason not to go, but what about my job?"

"We've spoken to Sir Otto. He was very negotiable," said Sir John. "Given that your absence will be very short. If it influences your decision, we are thinking about ten months of your current salary, for a little of your time. Doesn't sound so bad, eh?"

Matt shrugged. His family wasn't well-off, but they weren't impoverished, either. His job as first officer has been able to provide quite adequately for everyone, but he supposed that extra income could never hurt.

"Of course there is the small matter of your own consent, ma'am," added Sir John, to Mrs. Cruse. "Since your son _is_ underage."

"Right. What do you think, Mom?"

"I think," Mrs. Cruse said cautiously, "that it might not be a bad idea if it is only for a week."

"Actually, ma'am, we were thinking three weeks. Half for training, half for touring."

"Oh," said Mrs. Cruse, and doubt crossed her face.

"And I suppose your Division has nothing better to do than to promote recruitment?" Matt asked.

"Recruitment is very important, Mr. Cruse," the General replied. "This newsreel will also be shown in Britain. You are not as famous there as you are in Canada, but I have no doubt it will still have some effect. We are planning also to establish a department to deal specifically with these things."

"Propaganda, you mean."

"_Patriotic advertisement_," corrected the General. "But yes."

"What if you got, say, Sarah Bernhardt, and asked her to do the same thing? Surely much more effective than I would be."

Sir John exchanged a look with the General. "A most interesting idea," he said after a moment's consideration. "It might be effective. But I'm certain your presence, Mr. Cruse, will be just as effective. We need both heroes and beauties to promote our cause."

Matt almost laughed. Heroes. Wait till Kate hears of _that_. _'Oh, and I suppose _I'm_ not a hero just because I'm a lady and I'm supposed to sit at home and sew dresses for you sweaty men!'_ she would exclaim, and he would laugh and kiss her. Once again he had to force his thoughts away from her.

"So, three weeks of my time. Starting now?" he asked.

"Starting when the Aurora returns to Paris, a week from now. General?"

"Yes. If you choose to accept, we will meet you at the Paris Heliodrome, where our men will then fly you to Switzerland, where the Polaris training grounds are."

"Switzerland?"

"The Alps, to be exact. Our members need to train in the face of the harshest environments. I am told you acclimatize very quickly to high altitude?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"A captain who we have business dealings with."

"… Slater?"

"That's the man."

Matt nodded resignedly. It would seem that everyone, including Hal Slater of all people — who he hasn't even seen for two years! — wanted him to make this newsreel. He looked at his mother and shrugged.

"There's a first time to everything, I suppose," he said.

"I daresay Syl would be very excited," she responded. They could both see the worry in each other's eyes. "General, forgive me for asking, but this won't be dangerous in any way or —"

"Absolutely not. We value safety highly in our training base." There was another small, almost undetectable hint of contempt. "That is also to say, Mr. Cruse will be kept well out of battle. Even in the event that the Polaris has to mobilize, I will make sure Mr. Cruse remains in our base until an escort can be assembled. It is heavily defended, I assure you; no war can touch it."

"I'll be safe, Mom," Matt said. "I'm sure."

"But what about after? Where is he touring?"

"Military bases of the British Expeditionary Force," the General responded. "_Well_ behind the expected front lines. He is a civilian; I promise you, ma'am, I shall not forget that."

Mrs. Cruse sighed and reached out to grasp Matt's hand.

"Very well, gentlemen," she said after a squeeze. "You have my consent."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

1. ANZAC = Australian & New Zealand Army Corps.

2. In historical WWI, Britain relied heavily on her extensive empire, and in fact the pressure for troops was so great that Canada implemented a highly unpopular system of conscription for a short duration, resulting in the Conscription Crisis of 1917.

3. Britain's MI7 was formed in 1916 to produce her wartime propaganda and limit reports on the horrifying nature of trench wars. It was extremely successful; enlistment remained strong all the way until the end of the war.

4. In most countries back then, the age of majority was 21.


	5. Boisterous Boffins

**Author's Notes:**

And now, _finally_, we can get back to our beloved Leviathan :)

Again, this chapter is a bit long because of the prodigious use of excerpts. Alek will make his appearance in a few chapters.

* * *

_**His Majesty's London Zoo was squawking like a bag of budgies on fire. Deryn skidded to a halt at the entry gate, stunned by the tumult of hoots and roars and shrieks.**_

_**To her right a troop of monkeys clung to the bars of their cage, howling into the air. Past them a netted enclosure was full of agitated birds, a blizzard of plumage and noise. Across a wide moat a giant elephantine stamped the ground nervously, sending tremors through Deryn's boots.**_

"_**Barking spiders," she swore softly.**_

_**She'd made Jaspert take her to the London Zoo five weeks ago, fresh off the train from Glasgow. But on that visit she'd heard nothing like this ruckus.**_

_**Obviously the Leviathan had put the beasties in a state.**_

_**Deryn wondered how the airship must smell to the natural animals. Like a giant predator coming to gobble them up? Or some long-lost evolutionary cousin? Or did its tangle of fabricated species make them think a whole island was floating past overhead?**_

"_**Are you my airman?" a voice called.**_

**Deryn turned to see a woman wearing a long traveling coat, a valise in one hand.**

"**Pardon me, ma'am?"**

"**I was promised an airman," the woman said. "And you appear to be in uniform. Or are you simply here to throw peanuts at the monkeys?"**

**Deryn blinked, then realized that the woman was wearing a black bowler.**

"**Oh… **_**you're**_** the boffin?"**

**The woman raised an eyebrow. "Guilty as charged. But my acquaintances call me Dr. Barlow."**

**Deryn blushed, bowing a little. "Midshipman Dylan sharp, at your service."**

_**(Excerpt from Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld, chapter 16. The rest of the chapter incorporates many other excerpts.)**_

"So you _are_ my airman. Excellent." The woman held out the valise. "If you would be a dear, I'll just fetch our cargo. My colleague should be here soon as well, with my traveling companion."

Deryn took the bag and bowed again. "Of course, ma'am. Sorry to be so thick. It's just that… no one told me you were a lady."

Dr. Barlow laughed. "Not to worry, young man. The subject has occasionally been debated." She patted the top of her bowler hat. "Do keep an eye out, since my colleague does not like to wear bowlers."

With that she turned away and disappeared through the gatehouse door, leaving Deryn holding the heavy valise and wondering if she were seeing things. She'd never heard of a lady boffin before — or a female diplomat, for that matter. The only women who had anything to do with diplomacy were spies, she reckoned, and this Dr. Barlow seemed too loud for that sort of undercover yackum. And what was this business about a boffin not liking his bowler hat? Deryn had always reckoned a bowler was a mandatory part of a boffin.

A laugh drew her attention back towards the zoo gate, and Deryn saw the door burst open, followed by a young woman pulled along by a the strangest-looking fab she had ever seen. She barely had any time to observe the situation before the fab went _straight_ towards her, as if it were a blood-hound seeking the scent of the hunt. Deryn froze up, noticing the creature's sharp teeth and its gaping mouth. It looked rather like a huge tan dog with tiger stripes.

It walked in bounds, a little like a kangaroo, but Deryn put that random thought aside. She figured she had about half a second to decide whether or not to drop the lady boffin's valise and move out of the way, or risk getting…

Nudged. The beastie nudged her hand, yipped once, then bounded happily like a giant flea. Its fur was coarse but silky.

Deryn frowned.

Yipped?

"Oh, my goodness," the woman holding the leash said. She had a flat accent that was somehow familiar, though Deryn forgot where she had previously heard it. "I am _so_ sorry. Tazza is usually quite shy. It's completely uncharacteristic for him to go _straight_ for someone."

Deryn wasn't quite sure what to say. "Er, it's alright, ma'am," she managed in the end.

The woman waved her hand. "I hope that didn't startle you! Tazza doesn't bite, truly."

Deryn flinched as the beastie licked her hand, its raspy, moist tongue leaving behind an itch on her skin. "Uhm, ma'am, I'm sorry to say so but, may I suggest you take your uh, beastie, elsewhere? There will quite a bit of ruckus around here in a bit."

Tazza let out another excited yip. Deryn had always thought that it was forbidden to give names to any fabs — but then again she'd thought there weren't any lady boffins either. Deryn was about to ask the woman how the she got into the zoo in the first place, since it was closed to civilians for today, when she noticed her staring strangely.

Deryn blinked, looking back. The woman was even younger than she had first guessed, perhaps only two or three years older than herself, though slightly shorter. She had mahogany hair tied into a loose bunch, and a beautiful face with strong brows and a hint of temper. Her intelligent grey eyes were narrowed in a frown.

"Elsewhere?" she said. "But am I not to follow you?"

"Follow _me?_ Whatever for?"

"What do you mean, what for? I thought Dr. Barlow said you knew I was coming."

Deryn looked about, confused. "You know the lady boffin?"

"Of course I know her. Remind me why we are having this conversation again?"

"Well, she just said her colleague would be out with her travel companion. I don't think she mentioned you, though, Miss, or —"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. _I'm_ her colleague," the young woman — barely out of girlhood — said, a slight annoyance in her tone. "And you are?"

Deryn blinked, and blinked again. Then she felt her mouth drop open.

"_You're_ her colleague." she said stupidly. "You're a boffin?"

"Yes, I am."

"But, your bowler…"

The girl sighed resignedly, as if anticipating this, and fished out from somewhere a battered and quite-squashed bowler hat. She waved it in front of Deryn. "Yes, I'm a scientist," she repeated with every evidence of a patience wearing thin. "Why does nobody in this country believe it unless I wear this ridiculous hat?"

"But you're just a girl!" Deryn blurted before she could smack herself. Immediately she wanted to curl up into a ball and burrow into the concrete. Her cheeks flushed red. "I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't mean —"

The girl gaped at her, but then her nostrils narrowed dangerously. It looked extremely intimidating, and Deryn took a half-step backwards.

"Listen well, _boy_," she said coolly. "My name is Dr. Katherine Cruse. I am Dr. Barlow's research associate. I may be only a bit older than you, but if you ever _dare_ call me a girl again, your captain will know of this, and you will lose your position aboard your ship. Do I make myself clear?"

Deryn gulped spikes down her throat. "Yes, ma'am," she said, badly shaken. "My d-deepest apologies, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. But, but then, the travel companion the lady boffin — I mean Dr. Barlow — mentioned…"

"She was referring to Tazza." Dr. Cruse hefted the leash in her hand, nostrils still narrowed. "Now, as I was asking, _and you are?_"

"Er, I'm very sorry, ma'am. Midshipman Dylan Sharp, ma'am, at your service."

The girl — the young lady — the young lady boffin — the barking _scary_ young lady boffin — peered at her for a moment, which made Deryn stand straighter than she ever has in her short cross-dressing military career, before nodding, apparently satisfied. To Deryn's shock, she then smiled, as if she regularly narrowed her nostrils and made someone feel like they were going to clart their uniform. "Well, now that we got all that unpleasantry out of the way, Mr. Sharp," she said breezily, holding out her own valise for Deryn to take, "I must apologize for being so stern."

Deryn struggled to grab the second valise as the first one trembled in her grasp, her fingers complaining of the weight. Terrified now of the boffin — who had the power to terminate the best career prospects she'd ever dreamed of by kicking her off the _Leviathan_ — Deryn quickly answered. "Er, it's no problem, ma'am. Not at all."

"Oh I'm glad," Dr. Cruse said with that same smile as Deryn grunted and heaved up the valise. "I just hate people who think I should be wearing a bowler when it looks so horrible on me, you understand. And of course, I _abhor_ being called a girl. Come along now, Tazza — Mr. Sharp, if you will be so kind as to lead the way?"

As they started to walk towards the Leviathan, Deryn couldn't help but feel as if her world was becoming a little bit unraveled. Barking spiders! As if _one_ lady boffin weren't enough, here comes _another_, and this one barely older than her, _and_ bringing a strange fabricated guard dog which did not seem the least bit intimidating _nor_ useful, with a name like 'Tazza' besides! It was all a bit much to handle, and Deryn _almost_ wished that she weren't the one to reach the airfield first — let that bum-rag Fitzroy deal with these boffins; he was from a posh family, she seemed to recall, and would know about these things. But then again, it must be pure dead luck that she got to meet their guests first. Deryn took a longing glance at the airship hovering over Regent's Park, and felt determination filling her again. If she could get through all of this, and leave a good impression on the two boffins, she was sure she'd be allowed to stay. If anyone was going to lose their place over two absurdly heavy valises and a daft beastie named Tazza, it was _not_ going to be her!

They hadn't taken more than ten steps, however, before Dr. Barlow's booming voice came from behind them.

"Careful now, gentlemen," she said, emerging from the gatehouse and carrying… a covered bird cage. Deryn decided to ignore that. "Gently does it!"

Dr. Cruse smiled. "There she comes," she said. "Let's wait for her."

"Of course, ma'am."

"Miss is fine. I'm not half so old as a ma'am."

Whether Dr. Cruse wanted to be called ma'am or miss, Deryn was certainly glad for the opportunity to let the two valise land on the ground, and rest her already screaming arms a little. She shook them around, trying to get some barking circulation back. _What_ were in those valises?

"Ah, Dr. Cruse! I see you have met our airman," Dr. Barlow said, walking over.

Seeing her, the strange zebra-dog bounded over and jumped. Deryn knew enough now to realize that it posed no danger whatsoever, and she watched as the woman ruffled the beastie's fur and tickled its ears as it licked her. "Hello, Tazza dear, yes, yes, I've missed you for the past twenty minutes as well. Did you bully our airman?"

"No, he went straight for her," Dr. Cruse said. "Almost lost his leash."

"My, that's certainly strange behavior from you," Dr. Barlow said. Then she turned her head and yelled back at the gatehouse: "Oh for goodness' sake, hurry _up_ please. We have a schedule to keep."

Deryn wondered who else was coming along. Between Barlow and Cruse, and their valises _and_ Tazza, that was probably four middies gone. Any more weight and they'll have to start tossing off officers!

A speck of white creeped out slowly. At first Deryn didn't know what it was, until abruptly she recognized a man in a white lab coat, who she thought might be a young boffin. He was walking backwards like he had arthritis and weighed three hundred pounds, each small shuffle literally _inching_ him in their direction. It took several seconds just for him to clear the doorway, and then Deryn saw that he was holding something.

It was an ordinary-looking box, long and square, packing straw poking out here and there. Eventually, the other end of the box emerged, followed by the other young boffin who carried it. The whole thing was like watching a slow agonizing birth, punctuated by Midwife Barlow's incessant encouragements — or reprimands, depending on how one heard it. But Deryn wasn't sure the young boffins took heed at all, they were concentrating on the task so hard.

Now she understood why they had to land in the middle of Regent's Park. This box, whatever it was, held extremely precious cargo; it would never have survived the trip from the zoo to the airfields outside the city.

Finally, the box reached the three of them. Deryn thought she might offer to help, but hesitated when she felt a squick of warmth from the box. Warmth, and moisture.

"Is something _alive_ in there?" she asked.

"That is a military secret," said Dr. Barlow.

"Or not so military, as it were," said Dr. Cruse. "Though a secret nonetheless." She handed the leash back to her colleague and offered Deryn a smile. Despite herself, Deryn was starting to like the young lady boffin's character; easy to anger, but easy to laugh.

"So, shall we get going then?" Dr. Barlow asked, more of an order than a question. Reluctantly Deryn picked up the two valises again, with a light grunt, and the party continued on the road to Regent's Park. Two lady boffins, a midship(wo)man in disguise, two surly boffins carrying what must a barking sand castle in a box, and a daft beastie named Tazza; Deryn had no doubt that they were definitely the oddest little bunch to have ever left His Majesty's London Zoo.

ooo

Dr. Barlow clicked her tongue. "Your airship looks unhappy."

The _Leviathan_ was still about fifty feet up, the captain bringing her down with infinite caution. The cilia on its flanks were rippling, and flocks of fabricated birds roiled across the park, driven from their nesting coves by the airship's twitchiness.

"It's too crowded here," observed Dr. Cruse. "But oh, what a wonderful form. You must feel proud, Doctor."

"Nonsense," said Dr. Barlow, though Deryn thought she _did_ sound a wee bit pleased. Not that Deryn had any idea what the two boffins were talking about, of course, but she was starting to get used to it. Along the way they had chitchatted about all sorts of things, and Deryn could understand none of it. She was beginning to wonder if this was part of being a _lady_ boffin — Dr. Busk had certainly never sounded half so mad.

"I think it'll be better once we're higher up," Deryn ventured. "I mean, I reckon Miss — Dr. Cruse is right."

"I imagine she is," Dr. Barlow said. "All the same, Mr. Sharp, my cargo requires a smooth ride."

"Well, the airflow gets messy down here, ma'am. There's nothing the captain can really do."

Dr. Barlow sighed. "Especially in the middle of London, I suppose."

"Aye ma'am," Deryn said, excited to talk about something she _knew_, for once. "The streets tangle up the wind, and the big ships get nervous coming down on unfamiliar fields. You see those wee grassy bits on the ship's flanks? They're called cilia, and they look shivery to me."

At this, Dr. Cruse burst out laughing. It was a tinkling laugh, and Deryn glanced back at her, wondering what she had done. Was cilia a funny word to boffins?

"I'm sorry," the young lady boffin said, sensing her questioning stare. She covered her mouth. "It's just that —"

"It's just that I believe I ought to know what cilia are, Mr. Sharp," Dr. Barlow smiled. "I fabricated this particular species, in fact."

Deryn felt herself go red from her neck to the tip of her scalp. Now that earlier comment made sense too. She felt like a barking ninny; lecturing to the creator of the _Leviathan_ on the subject of cilia and airflow! She reminded herself that these two women were probably dead clever to be sent on a secret diplomatic mission like this, and resolved to not say anything more and stop looking like a bloody idiot.

The three of them settled into silence as they watched the airbeast's descent. Or at least Deryn settled back into silence — the two boffins were whisper-talking to each other, discussing national secrets most likely.

What _was_ the great beastie so nervous about anyway? It might have to do with airflow, it might have to do with people, but the _Leviathan_ has seen plenty of both. Deryn looked up, remembering the storm that had almost ended her Air Service career on the first day, but the weather was perfect. Perhaps it was the zoo, as well, all them natural animals going bonkers so close by. She thought about asking the two boffins if that were possible, but decided against it.

She still remembered her absolute awe at the airbeast as it glided stately towards her, growing and growing and _growing_ from a speck in the sky above the Channel, until it took up the entire view. That had been a month ago, after she'd been rescued from an eternity of drifting on a Huxley, and Matt had invited her to stay on the bridge at least until the _Leviathan_ got close. Then it was standard aerial transfer procedures — a flimsy rope bridge had been made to close the gap, and Deryn had only to skip merrily over like a lassie on a picnic, two thousand feet in the air, from one massive airship to the next. The bosun Mr. Rigby had even complimented her on how well she handled heights. Not a bad way to start off her career, if she does say so herself.

Then, of course, once she had gotten past the initial shock (she was on _HMS_ _barking Leviathan_, for crying out loud!), she had begged shamelessly for them to let her take the middy tests on board. They relented eventually, something about a duke fellow getting himself killed and the Service needing men. After that, it was off to join the _Leviathan_'s other middies as they all (very _boyishly_) punched and jostled and jeered and stole-breakfasted their way through each day of new challenges and things to learn. Then its a glorious month of combat drills, combat drills, combat drills.

Until yesterday, which was when they said, 'oh aye, now let's go pick up two fancy-pants lady boffins and kick a couple of our loyal middies off due to weight!'

Deryn sighed and pulled herself from her memories. It was no use bemoaning that _now_. She considered mentioning her dilemma to the two lady boffins, who no doubt had the power to solve it, but decided against it. It would make her look so selfish, even though she wanted with all her heart to stay onboard the airbeast. To taste only a short month of this grand life would be too cruel.

She gazed back at the airbeast. With no mooring mast in the park, ropes stretched in all directions to squads of men clinging to them. The constables could hardly keep the landing oval open, the crowds were so enthusiastic. Deryn thought they were all behaving a bit like hydrogen sniffers who'd caught the scent, and laughed secretly at the analogy.

"Your airship looks a proper Gulliver," Dr. Cruse remarked, gesturing to the hundreds of ropes struggling to bring her down.

"Huh? Oh, aye, that's for sure," said Deryn. Then she spotted a few people who shouldn't be holding the lines, and then a few more. She cursed.

"What's the matter, Mr. Sharp?" asked Dr. Barlow.

"Fitzroy must be daft! Er, it's the men on the ropes, ma'am. If a squall comes up quick, they won't know to let go — and _fast_ — or be carried up into the air…"

"Where they will eventually fall to their deaths," concluded Dr. Cruse. Deryn grimaced.

"Aye. One strong gust can carry the _Leviathan_ up a hundred feet in seconds." It was the first thing they taught ground men: Don't hang on. The trees rippled overhead, sending a shiver through Deryn.

"What would you recommend we do, Mr. Sharp?"

Deryn frowned, wondering if the ship's officers knew what was going on. Most of the untrained men were back at the stern end, out of sight of the bridge.

"I imagine we shall have to tell your captain," said Dr. Cruse.

"Perhaps Clementine can help," agreed Dr. Barlow. She hefted up the covered bird cage she's been carrying, handed Tazza's leash to Deryn, and took out a large parrot-like bird with gray feathers and a brilliant red tuft as its tail.

"Good morning, Dr. Barlow," the bird said in Dr. Cruse's voice.

"Oh heavens, Clementine," the young boffin said, shaking her head. "She loves to imitate my voice for some odd reason."

"Good morning, dear," Dr. Barlow answered, suppressing a light smirk. Then she said in a slow, clear voice, "Captain Hobbes, greetings from Dr. Barlow. I have a message from Mr. Sharp: You appear to have some untrained me on your ropes. End message. Now, off you go, dear, and find the captain. Captain."

She pushed the bird out towards the airship.

As it swept up and away, Deryn murmured, "What was that?"

"A message parrot," Dr. Barlow said. "We've trained it to read airmen's uniforms and gondola markings."

"Trained it, ma'am?" Deryn frowned. "But I thought this Constantinople business came up all of a sudden."

"Not quite as sudden as your captain might have you believe," said Dr. Cruse. "We've known for a month or so that this was eventually going to take place." A faint look of annoyance marred her features. "Although, personally, I had counted on a departure date _after_ August."

"I'm sure we'll be back in time for your trip, dear," said Dr. Barlow. "But alas, things are moving quicker than we've expected." She gestured at the box and sighed. "I hadn't anticipated our hasty start, either, but we can only do our best."

There was a sudden splash, and as Deryn watched, the _Leviathan_'s ballast sphincters relaxed. A spray hit the ground, to startled yelps.

"Blisters," Deryn swore. "Why's he _climbing?_"

Neither of the boffins answered her, but instead watched as the ballast water rained down on the ground men's heads. It sparkled prettily in the sunlight, but Deryn knew where that ballast came from — it was straight from the gastric channel, clart and all.

The civilians among them thought something had gone wrong. A squad of men drafted from the nearby cricket fields to help had dropped their ropes and were covering their heads, retreating from the unexpected rain of smelly water. The ship rose higher as their weight left the ropes, but the proper ground men, who'd had clart hit their heads a hundred times, hung on. In a few moments all the untrained men had abandoned their ropes, and Deryn saw the hydrogen sniffers on the ship's topside going into a frenzy. The captain was also venting gas.

The ship steadied in the air, and slowly resumed its descent.

"Very clever, your captain," Dr. Barlow said.

"Nothing like a bit of muck to clear things out," Deryn said happily, then added, "So to speak, ma'am."

Dr. Barlow let out a laugh. "Indeed. I shall enjoy traveling with you, Mr. Sharp."

"Thank you, ma'am." Deryn glanced at the two boffins' massive pile of luggage. A barking steamer trunk was now in their midst, probably brought over by one of the boffin's assistants after they'd put down the mystery box. "Perhaps you could mention this to the bosun? You see, the ship's a wee bit overweight."

"I shall," the woman said, taking back her beastie's leash. "We'd like a little cabin boy all to our own, wouldn't we, Tazza? Of course, Dr. Cruse here already has _her_ cabin boy waiting back home," she added, with a wry smirk. Deryn had no idea what that meant, but Dr. Cruse actually blushed, which she thought must be a rather rare occurrence. She wanted to explain that midshipmen certainly weren't _cabin boys_, but Dr. Barlow had already called over her assistants, and was once again shouting precautions as they lifted the strange box.

Deryn sighed. At least she'd earned her place aboard the _Leviathan_. And after his blunder with the ropes, that bum-rag Fitzroy might finally get what he deserved. Not bad for a day's work.

Of course, now there was a fresh worry to ponder.

As females, _both_ of the boffins might notice a few odd things the other crewmen hadn't. And they were clever-boots who knew all the business about the human body that there was to know, or at least Deryn imagined they did. If anyone was going to guess Deryn's little secret, it would be either one of these two lady boffins.

"Brilliant," Deryn muttered, taking hold of the two valises and hurrying for the ship.


	6. Web of the World

**Author's Notes:**

Here's the next chapter. Is anyone still reading? Please leave a review to let me know how I'm doing. Thanks!

* * *

_**(Contains excerpts from Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld, chapter 19.)**_

"And this connects here, which feeds this bladder here," Deryn said, her hand flying across a detailed diagram of the ship's upper — dorsal — side.

"Capacity?" asked Dr. Cruse.

"Usually ten thousand cubic feet."

She scribbled some notes, pencil scratching furiously across paper. "I see. The usual expansion limit of ten percent applies?"

"Aye, ma'am."

There was some more writing.

"Fifteen percent increase in lift, if converted," Dr. Cruse said finally, and went back to examine the diagram of the ship's innards.

Deryn sighed. They were currently going over every single barking hydrogen bladder on the entire barking ship starting from an hour ago, right after she had gotten off her last watch of the day — four nervous hours of keeping an eye out for German aircraft. Dr. Cruse had barged into her cabin, found her shaving (or pretending to, anyway), and dragged her to her own stateroom for interrogation.

It has been two days since they departed London, and they were now a third of the way to Constantinople, currently entering the alpine region at the borders of France and Switzerland. Due to the new load the ship had taken on, only Deryn and Newkirk remained; two middies out of six, and all barking Tazza's fault, if anyone's. Deryn had since learned that the beastie, strange as it may sound, was completely natural. A thylacine or Tasmanian tiger or whatever its daft name was, from way, _way_ down under; Van Diemen's Land, in fact. It was a _wee_ bit insulting that a sodding beastie had probably been to more exotic places than she had.

During this time, both of the boffins seemed to treat her indeed like their personal cabin boy, which drove Deryn barking spiders. They asked her for tours of the ship _constantly_, asked her questions that she wasn't sure even the barking _captain_ could answer, and generally just talked, and talked, and talked. Dr. Barlow was easier to handle; Deryn just needed to show her the hawks and messenger peregrines, the bees and the bacteria colonies, the medicine bay and its various fungi used to stop infection, and she was grand. Dr. Cruse, on the other hand, seemed abnormally interested in the ship's anatomy, especially her hydrogen bladders and gastric channels. Deryn had no idea if Dr. Cruse had a dull nose, but _she_ for one did not fancy spending all her free time surrounded by smells of rotten onion and cow farts — which would cling to her like a particularly malevolent ghost and make Newkirk all but barf in her presence. Poor monkey luddite; bad enough to serve on a _living_ airship, and now his only fellow midshipman strutted around smelling like clart. Deryn reckon she'd just jump ship if she were Newkirk; not that she wanted him to, no, no. He was probably the only friend she had left on this entire ship.

Deryn missed having the others about, if only to share the work of altitude readings and feeding the fléchette bats. The only brilliant thing — besides that bum-rag Fitzroy being gone — was that Deryn and Newkirk each had a private cabin now. Of course, neither of the boffins seemed to have any respect or even _notion_ of privacy.

She sighed again and leaned back on the chair. The only good thing about coming to Dr. Cruse's stateroom was that the furnitures were all sodding fancy.

"Does this bore you, Mr. Sharp?" Dr. Cruse asked suddenly, looking up from her notes.

"What?"

"Does this bore you. Spending time here, telling me about your ship."

"Well… maybe? I mean, I love the ship, miss, it's just that —"

The young woman laughed. "Not to worry; I don't mind. It would bore me as well. But this is preliminary work, and it must be done. I do hope to install one when we reach Constantinople, to test it out."

"Install one, miss?"

"Ah, I forget. You don't know what it is I'm working on."

"The same could be said of the other lady boffin, miss," Deryn said drily. Boffins and their secret missions; they so often speak in riddles that Deryn was used to it by now.

"Indeed," Dr. Cruse said with a wry smile. "And we're sorry for not telling you, we truly are. National secrets and all that; I'm sure you understand."

"Absolutely, miss," Deryn said, unable to keep the little bit of spite out of her voice. It wasn't that she truly wished to know, really, but all the secrecy made her feel like she couldn't be trusted with anything, like a five year old who'd go rattle her head off to the first person she meets. She could actually be very secretive, if she wished. Deryn shook her head and told herself off for being daft. This was no time for curiosity, after all. Germany had declared war on France yesterday and had gone after Belgium today. The rumor was that Britain would be in it tomorrow unless the kaiser puts a stop to the whole mess by midnight.

Which nobody thought was very likely.

"Oh, come now, don't sulk. You know, it _is_ rather interesting that your ship happened to be the vessel responsible for our transport."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'd expected a smaller ship, for one. And my husband had ran into your ship last month. I'm not sure if you were there —"

"You have a _husband?_ You're barking _married?_"

Dr. Cruse looked puzzled. "Yes?"

"But you're a — I mean, how old _are_ you?"

"Me?" Dr. Cruse furrowed her brow. "Today is August…"

"Fourth."

"Ah. Then I am exactly eighteen years, a month, and two weeks old."

Deryn couldn't help but gape. "You're only three wee years older than me!"

"Didn't you already know that?"

"Well, aye, but I expected like, seven! At least!"

"Goodness! Do I really look that old?"

"No, it's not that, it's just —"

"I'm married?"

"Exactly!"

"Huh. That's strange. And here I thought you British people married early."

"Aye, I guess, but… still!" Deryn shivered. For one, her Ma would _kill_ her if she got married before eighteen. For two, Jaspert would probably kill her husband and throw the body into the ocean. And speaking of her brother: he was eighteen too, but _he_ wasn't barking married! Deryn tried to imagine him kissing a lass, any lass, and failed.

"Well calm down, Mr. Sharp," laughed Dr. Cruse. "I'm not asking you to get married at eighteen — at seventeen, rather — just because I did. I reckon boys get married older. Usually, that is."

That was when Deryn realized she was still supposed to be a boy. "Oh. Right. How old is your husband, then?"

"A months older than I am."

"That's not exactly older at all!"

"No, I suppose it's not. You know, people _have_ called us hasty, but I think we've made the right choice." She sighed. "He should actually be close by, right now. Don't look at me like that! I'm not saying he's a ghost or anything — what I mean is, he's probably in the Alps at the moment."

"Oh," said Deryn. "Is he a mountaineer?"

"He's a sky sailor. You know, you remind me a lot of him, the way you move aboard the ship, like you're so sure of where you're going, like you're exactly at home." She gave Deryn a warm smile, then laughed at her expression. "_Relax_, Mr. Sharp! It's not like I'll suddenly start fancying you just because of that."

Deryn winced. "God, that would be just as bad as if Dr. Barlow were my Ma!" she exclaimed. She did not want _any_ boffin (lady or not) as her relation, thank you very much.

"Well, I am incidentally the mother of two children, Mr. Sharp," came a voice at the stateroom's door. With a preliminary knock, Dr. Barlow strode in, Tazza walking besides her. She laughed when she saw Deryn, who had stood up so quickly she'd knocked over a stack of books on the desk.

"Hello, Dr. Barlow," said Dr. Cruse, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

"_You _have_ children?_" asked Deryn, faintly.

"Hello, Dr. Cruse. I'm glad you're with Mr. Sharp; I was just about to look for you two. And yes, young man, I do," she added.

"That's… unexpected," Deryn said.

"Thank you. Your compliment is most kind. Anyway, I came here to ask you, Dr. Cruse, if you still want to see the _Leviathan_'s bee colonies?"

"Oh, goodness, I almost forgot I asked. Yes, absolutely! I'd love to see your grandfather's handiwork."

"And taste it, I hope? It's perfectly good honey. Mr. Sharp, if you will lead the way?"

Dr. Cruse closed her notebook with a thud and tossed it onto her desk. She put the pencil in the penholder, and looked at Deryn expectantly.

"What's with you boffins and barking bees?" Deryn sighed as she got up. This was supposed to be her off duty hours! "I mean, they're barking _bees_."

"To the careful observer," Dr. Barlow said, "bees can be most intriguing." She gestured towards the stateroom door. "Lads first."

Rolling her eyes, Deryn walked out of the comforts of the stateroom into the chilly hallway of the airship. She had planned to be asleep by now, but clearly fate (or boffins) was working against her.

"Bloody hell," she muttered, and started to head towards the bees.

ooo

They approached the colonies in just a short while. The _Leviathan_ hosted its hives deep within the airship's guts, so there was no trace of the frigid air at their eight-thousand-feet cruising altitude. Instead, it was warm, slightly damp, and smelling of clart. The usual. Tazza bounced around, his spirits slightly subdued by the esoteric cavern that was the _Leviathan_'s gastric channel, but nonetheless excited to see and hear new things. The walkway underfoot was alumiron, but the walls of the passage were alive — pulsing with digestion and aglow with worms.

As they approached the bow, a humming sound grew: millions of tiny wings churning the air, drying the nectar gathered that day over France. A little farther and the walls were covered with a seething mass of bees, their small round bodies buzzing around Deryn's head, bouncing softly against her sace and hands. Tazza, like last time, let out a low hiss and pressed closer to her legs.

Deryn could understand the thylacine's nervousness. Seeing the hives for the first time, she'd assumed they were weapons. But these bees didn't even have stingers. As Dr. Busk liked to put it, they were simply a method for extracting fuel from nature.

In summer the fields passing beneath the airship were full of flowers, each containing a tiny squick of nectar. The bees gathered that nectar and distilled it into honey, and then the bacteria in the airbeast's gut gobbled that up and farted hydrogen. It was a typical Darwinist strategy — no point in creating a new system when you could borrow one already fine-tuned by evolution.

A bee came to an inquisitive midair halt in front of Deryn's face. Its body was fuzzy and yellow, its dorsal regions as shiny and black as dress boots, the wings a blur. Deryn hadn't been able to notice these details on her last trip here, so now she squinted, memorizing its shape for sketching later.

"Hello, wee beastie."

"My, how adorable," said Dr. Cruse, who had somehow gotten one to stop on her fingers. "You know, it _is_ rather strange to see bees without the fear of being stung. I do enjoy that. Are they still territorial?"

"No. My grandfather had managed to fabricate the trait out."

"Considering the amount of resources and knowledge he had back then, a truly genius piece of work." She flicked her fingers and the bee flew off. "Mr. Sharp? What's the matter?"

"Er, nothing, miss. It's just that, did you mean _your_ grandfather, instead?"

"Oh, no. My own grandfather was a naturalist too, but part time only, and he wasn't a fabricator. More of an adventurer and hot air balloon enthusiast."

It was that three-word trigger. Suddenly, fire flashed by Deryn's mind, followed by explosions, colors, shouts… there was a tightness in her throat, and quickly, she shook her head before memory overwhelmed her.

"So it really is, I mean, Dr. Barlow's _grandfather_ fabricated these bees?"

"Yes, he did," said Dr. Barlow, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just that, he must be one of the very first Darwinists."

Dr. Cruse laughed. "You could say that, I suppose. An Austrian monk did some pioneering work, but his manuscripts weren't found until recently." An interested smile appeared on her face. "To think, had his ideas been expanded upon by his countrymen, today Austria would be Darwinist. Or Mendelist, as it were."

"I only wish that this were the case and Austria were on our side in this war," said Dr. Barlow. "I've met the Archduke before, and he seemed very reasonable. Alas. Anything else you wish to know about my grandfather, Mr. Sharp?"

"Um… why bees? Why did he fabricate bees?"

Dr. Barlow smiled. "I don't think he had a _reason_ for fabricating most things, unlike we do now. His friend fabricated the Huxley, you know, but intended it as a children's joy ride at carnivals."

"… Children's joy ride," said Deryn. "At carnivals."

"Children's joy ride," confirmed Dr. Barlow. "At carnivals."

"Is he _daft?_ They would break their wee little necks just trying to climb on that thing!" Not for the first time she remembered her fateful first day spent in a Huxley. There was no_ way_ that thing had been fabricated with children in mind.

Dr. Barlow smiled. "This, of course, he soon realized. But after that, the Air Service also realized its potential as a reconnaissance tool, so they bought the life thread blueprints and used it ever since."

"Pardon me, ma'am, but your grandfather and this Huxley person sounded barking bonkers."

"Hmm, perhaps they were. But I envy them sometimes. I do wonder what it would be like to fabricate things just for the sake of fabricating them. It must feel very liberating." She sighed. "But I digress. Despite not having any particular intention, I remember that my grandfather did have rather a fascination with bees, which is why he may have chosen to experiment with them. Bees are interesting creatures, Mr. Sharp, especially when connected to cats and clover."

Deryn blinked. "_Cats_, ma'am?"

"And clover, yes. He noticed that red clovers flower abundantly near towns but only thinly in the wild. You see, most cats live in towns — and cats eat mice. These same mice, Mr. Sharp, attack the nests of bees for their honey. And red clover cannot grow without bees to pollinate it. Do you follow?"

Deryn raised an eyebrow, and shook her head. By now, Dr. Cruse had settled back like an assistant professor in a classroom lecture listening to the instructor. One really bad thing about being around two clever-boots boffins was that they often (like now) made Deryn feel like she hadn't even finished kindergarten.

"Oh, but it's very simple. Near towns there are more cats, fewer mice, and thus more bees — which means more red clover. My grandfather was good at noticing webs of such relations."

"This is all too barking complicated to think about," said Deryn, and Dr. Barlow laughed.

"Not if you're adept at noticing details. For example, Mr. Sharp, have you even started growing a beard yet?"

Deryn stopped looking at the bees and swiveled her head around to look at the lady boffin.

"Pardon me, ma'am?"

"You were shaving yesterday, dear."

"And today as well," added Dr. Cruse. "Before I interrupted him."

"Ah. And yet your face contains no stubbles, and both sides are equally smooth." Dr. Barlow peered closely at her. "You have very delicate, tapering hair. Plus, there is no Adam's apple. In fact, I don't believe you even _need_ to shave. How old are you, Mr. Sharp?"

"You said you were three years younger than I am," said Dr. Cruse. "Fifteen?"

Deryn felt like a criminal being interrogated by two constables. Cold sweat poured down her flanks. She knew, she _knew_ from the first day that these boffins would catch on to something, but she never imagined it would be so barking _fast_. A sense of despair enveloped her as she looked madly around the gastric channel, at the ship that's been her home for the past month or so. She'd get kicked off, now, there was no doubt. She'd —

"Well," said Dr. Barlow. "That would explain it. Barely fifteen is my guess. Don't worry, Mr. Sharp. I'm sure you're not the first boy to come into the Service a bit young."

Deryn blinked. She blinked again. Then she felt relief seep through her limbs, and suddenly it was almost difficult to stand.

They didn't know her secret. Or they knew, but they arrived _at the wrong conclusion_. Thank barking heavens.

"Aye," she managed. "I, uh, I couldn't wait."

"Understandable," said Dr. Barlow, sadly. "Boys and their natural affinity to war. You see, Mr. Sharp, what my grandfather recognized was this: If you remove one element — the cats, the mice, the bees, the flowers — the entire web is disrupted. An archduke and his wife are murdered, and all of Europa goes to war. A missing piece can be very bad for the puzzle, whether in the natural world, or politics, or here in the belly of an airship. We are all connected in a giant web of the world, whether or not we like it, and all of us may have a part to play. You seem like a fine crewman, dear, and I'd hate to lose you."

Deryn nodded slowly, trying to take all of this in. "Can't say I'm opposed to that, ma'am."

"Neither can I. You're a dear, Mr. Sharp. Though I must say, I never understood why the male half of our species liked conflicts," Dr. Cruse remarked, somewhat quizzically.

"I don't like conflicts, miss," Deryn said. "I just signed up to fly."

For a second, Dr. Cruse's grey eyes lit up.

"Bravo. That's _exactly_ how my husband would say it. When this whole thing is over, Mr. Sharp, I'd like you to meet him. You are more alike than you think."

A slow, low clanging pierced the hive's buzz.

"Do you hear that?" Deryn said, tensed. "It sounds like —"

"The general alarm?" Dr. Barlow nodded. "I'm afraid so. I think this is the end of our hive tour, Mr. Sharp, thank you for your time. It would appear that Britain and Germany are finally at war."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Emma Nora Darwin Barlow had six children in her lifetime, two still extant. In August, 1914, she would have been the mother of two (Joan and Thomas).


	7. Leviathan, Lost

**Author's Notes:**

Here's the new chapter. I enjoyed making up new technologies and describing them, so it's a little long :)

Alek will debut next chapter.

* * *

The Polaris Division's training base was nothing Matt had anticipated. He had expected an extensive, icy mountain fortress, carved out of the rock, but in fact it was a small Alpine village in a beautiful little valley, with weapon ranges and airship hangars cut into the side. There _were_, of course, bunker-type fortifications in the cliffs of the valley, but the main compounds were all in the flatlands disguised as typical Germanic village houses, almost adorably fairy-tale like in atmosphere. Matt had to hand it to the Division; they'd certainly chose a great spot, where the air was so fresh you felt it could lift you right out of bed each morning.

But his good opinion of the place ended here.

Upon his arrival two weeks ago, he'd been introduced to a burly man named Isaac Hemmingfeld, who was, in fact, Eirish. But if Matt had expected anything out of their shared lineage, he was sorely mistaken. Hemmingfeld was born to stomp on people; he had an air of constant irritation, insufferable arrogance, and fists to back him up when insults went askew. And, since the man had the rank of Lieutenant, and was a squadron leader, he was _that_ much better than all of the others in the Division — which meant he looked down on Matt with every atom of his being.

"I had hoped they were joking when they said they got _you_ to represent _us_." he had remarked upon their first meeting while ignoring Matt's extended hand. "Sadly, I appear to have been mistaken. Please try your best not to die during these two weeks — I do hate paperwork."

Needless to say, in the subsequent time Hemmingfeld seemed dead set on making Matt as miserable as possible — and he'd succeeded disturbingly well. He'd assigned extra loads, extra miles, extra reps, and extra hours. He'd cut shower times, situated Matt's room as far as possible from the lavatories, and during one particularly horrible night, had even cut the power and heating to Matt's isolated unit. He'd oversaw the training personally, and only loosened up a little bit during times of filming. For the first seven days, Matt had ended his days exhausted, in pain, and drenched in sweat. Had he not gone through the _Starclimber_ trainings last year, he would have probably died. It didn't help that his fellow trainees (who were all older than him and about ten times as muscular) steered clear of him altogether; excluding him at tables, talks, training sessions, and basically everything else.

The inconvenience of communication made the whole ordeal even worse. Courier peregrines visited only every two weeks, bringing delayed news and telegrams meant for the members in training. Before he left Paris, Matt had managed to postmark a letter telling Kate his new address, and since then had only received one last letter, which had seemed very hurried. In it she explained that she'd been called on for a diplomatic mission to Constantinople all of a sudden, and that she had successfully replicated the aerozoan's system, but assured him that she will still be back in time for their trip later in August. There were also small mentions of Ellie's first word, but overall she seemed to have been caught off guard and been busy preparing.

Constantinople wasn't far, as the airship flies, but still Matt wondered why a diplomatic mission needed to be sent there now of all times, when every country in Europa was on the brink of war. Kate had told him she'd be perfectly safe, and he had no choice but to believe her. According to her, the ship would get there before the war started, and plus, they were diplomats, and nobody attacked diplomats. Or so he hoped.

Fortunately, after the first week, things started improving a little. Routine physical stuff was still on the schedule, but now there started to be rope climbing, rock climbing, balance training, parawing drops, agility trials, and strafing glider simulations. These, Matt could do (and do damned _well_), so at least that was something. But at the same time there was combat training — knives, fists, air-guns, actual guns, and even explosives. He wore body armor, like all the trainees, but for someone who wasn't violent by nature and who'd never had the need for self defense, the bewildering array of techniques and weapons gave him constant headaches. Matt worked through everything with a dogged persistence, determined to show Hemmingfeld wrong and prove that he could handle the work, but the Lieutenant never really acknowledged any of his progress. Such endless disapproval was more than enough for anyone to feel despaired. _You chose a civilian life_, he imagined the Lieutenant say with every single stare. _You're a disgrace no matter what you do_.

And of course there were the cameras. The camera crew were mostly silent, but they were ubiquitous, present at every single training event, following him everywhere from breakfast to bedtime. There were also interviews, in which he had to speak very loudly to a recording parrot, answering questions like, 'How do you feel about serving in the war?' And the worst part was, none of the answers were his own. He would be handed small sheets of paper with pre-designed answers written on them, so all he really did was read along, full of patriotic bravado and bloodthirsty masculinity. It made him feel like a filthy liar.

"Are you ready, Cruse?" came Hemmingfeld's voice from the door, interrupting his thoughts. Matt sat up on his bunk. His muscles were still in agony from the brutal 6 AM training routines, but after a brief lunch and quick shower, there was a bigger challenge to face in the afternoon.

"Yes," he said, trying to sound confident. The Lieutenant strode in without knocking.

"The much-lauded sky sailor, I've always heard. We'll see how you really measure up soon enough."

Hemmingfeld gave a cursory look around the bare cabin and beckoned him to follow. Shivering a little, Matt got up and out of his room, grabbing his coat along the way. It was bound to be freezing up high despite the sun.

Today was the first time he'd be allowed onboard a Polaris airship, just to learn the ropes. Somewhere in the nearby mountains, a mock of an enemy fortification had been erected, and his task was to find and destroy it, or show that he could and knew what to do. He followed the Lieutenant in silence towards a hidden hangar cut into a cliff, chilled drafts of wind burrowing its way through all the crevices in his jacket and cut at his thin sweater and shirt beneath. He didn't really expect anything from this flight — there weren't even cameras, and the ship would be running on a skeleton crew, armed only in recon mode. He supposed it was all part of the plan, so that in the official, filmed flight this evening, he wouldn't make too big of a fool of himself. He trudged on grimly into the hangar, feeling cold and lonely and miserable. The bright world outside dimmed.

"Well," said Hemmingfeld, gruffly, as he flicked a switch. Harsh electric light flooded the cavern. "I don't understand why they're letting you use her, but here she is, our vessel for today and this evening."

And Matt stopped right in his tracks.

She was a petite airship, not completely organic like the _Leviathan_, but only partially so. She was perhaps three hundred feet from head to stern, and the front third of her was designed with a sharp cleave, enabling extremes of aerodynamic speed. Glossy black hull plates of fabricated chitin covered her entire length, reinforced by alumiron sheets around the engines and the bow. She had three built-in electrical biomotors on each flank and one Aruba fueled traditional engine on its back, each so well designed that they were no more than bumps along her length. A few fins jutted out from her sleek black surface, fitted with flaps and hydraulics. The bridge was a platform set slightly higher on the bow than most airship designs, with wraparound windows coated with sheet gold and alumiron, for light reflection and lightning protection. Wires were inlaid in the hull in spaces between the armor plates, providing further lightning protection and rapid cooling. And then there were the weapons. Two machine gun posts at the front, two at the back, and two next to the crow's nest at the ridge. There was what appeared to be the bomb bay doors on her belly, and along the midline at both sides, there were entire rows of turrets and swiveling anti-air and anti-ground guns, all stowed flat against the curvature of her form so as to decrease drag. She must look a proper porcupine when engaged in full offensive.

Dark gold letters swirled on a plaque mounted in the hull near the bridge: _HMS Valkyrie_.

Matt felt like when he first saw the _Saga_, the involuntary admiration threatening to overwhelm him — this was a fierce ship of grace and utility, all muscle and no wasted space. Seven engines, _seven_, it must give her the strength of Zephyr himself, and she was already aerodynamic perfection; her top speed would be exhilarating. The flaps were all protected and reinforced and _delicate_, meaning she would be as supple and yielding as a living pegasus, and by God, what a glorious thing it would be to pilot her! _Valkyrie_ indeed!

Hemmingfeld smiled at him, and for the first time since Matt's known the man, the expression was genuine. No sky sailor, Polaris or not, could fail to love an airship like this. "Not too shabby, huh?"

"She's… she's incredible," Matt said, truthfully.

"You're damn right she is. Eighty-two crew members, fully manned. She's equipped with the newest dolphinesque echolocators, and can hold five strafing gliders. She's also got plenty of firepower. Anti-air guns shoot organic acid pellets and canvas-corroding bacteria; anti-ground ones shoot drills tipped with specialized aqua regia — it'll eat through any Clanker walker as long as they're not too thick. Lots of different aerial bombs as well — mustard gas, tear gas, biolumin flares, smoke bombs, squid ink, slug glue, anything you can think of."

"— slug glue?" Matt asked. "There's something called a slug glue bomb?"

"Ah. We haven't actually tested that one out, but yes. It's a bomb made out of fabricated slug slime made to harden fast. Theoretically, you drop that on a road, and any walker stepping in it will get stuck. Or you drop it on joints and they stick solid. You see, whenever the boffins come up with new things, we get equipped first, as a test run. Most of them do their job properly, but we report back to the boffins so they can make improvements."

Matt wondered if one of Kate's colleagues had come up with the slug glue, and smiled. He bet if he mentioned this to her, she'd start fabricating even more peculiar types of bombs in no time.

"Anyway, enough about the ship," Hemmingfeld said, and his face became an impassive mask once more; the short _Valkyrie_ show-and-tell was done. "As I told you, you'll be flying her until we find the enemy base, just to see if you can to it. Then we'll come back here and wait until the official flight in the evening. Whether or not you — or anyone else — can get some rest between now and then all depends on your ability."

Matt frowned. "What do you mean, anyone else?"

Hemmingfeld raised an eyebrow. "You didn't _honestly_ think we were going to fly this, just the two of us, did you?" He saluted out of nowhere, and Matt realized that people must already be on the bridge, waiting — the sheet gold covering the glass made it so that outsiders could not peer in. Matt felt his face grow hot; of course such a sophisticated airship could never have been manned by just two. This wasn't the _Aurora_, this was something designed for war.

As if responding to the salute, the _Vakyrie_'s front lights flickered on. Her bomb bay door opened like a gangway extending down, until it was just a foot off the ground.

"Wait, are there no ground crew?" Matt asked.

"No. The _Valkyrie_'s designed for battlefield landings and take-offs; we don't need a ground crew."

"Then how —"

"Please kindly get on board first; the others can tell you about the ship as we fly. The mock is two hours away; I would like to have supper before we do the official one."

ooo

The bridge of the _Valkyrie_ was typical for a Darwinist airship — inlaid with fabricated wood panels sporting intricate patterns, all the equipment melting into the interface as if they were just part of a living creature. Matt spotted several complex dials and levers, seven throttles for the engines, the main wheel, speaking tubes to machine gun posts, and altogether a dazzling array of other equipment. There was what he thought must be an altimeter, and the incredibly fiddly looking echolocation display. A peculiar piece of what looked alarmingly like skin was also mounted on the paneling; it was pure green with with occasional red and blue dots that flicker on and off at what seemed like random locations.

The man in charge of the bridge was another Lieutenant, but far more mild-mannered. Introducing himself as Trenton, he looked to be in his early thirties with a shadow of a beard, and though he may not have been friendly exactly, he was civil and took a bit of time to explain how everything worked.

"That's our electric and heat sensor," Trenton told him, pointing at the mounted skin. "Modified from sharks. The display here is fabricated cuttlefish tissue; changes color according to where things are. Red means heat, blue means electricity. Think of it as a top-down map, with us at the center, though unfortunately it's not too sensitive."

"What do you need it for?"

"Electric imbalances in the air that we can avoid, for one, like a building thunderstorm. That, and most Clanker technology produces a lot of heat; this gives us some warning."

Matt nodded.

"Trenton, we'll explain along the way," interjected Hemmingfeld. "Cruse wants to know how our docking system works, so just tell him about that, and up ship."

Trenton blinked. "Right. Well, since we don't usually have a ground crew, we use harpoon guns that shoot out fabricated spider silk. The shot end can be highly adhesive, but along the length of the line is a neuron that allows us to control when. We harpoon the main line to a mooring spot we want, send the axon signal, and it will turn sticky and attach to the surface of whatever it is we're mooring on. Then we cast out supporting lines in the same fashion and pull ourselves down by winches. The silk is constantly regenerating, so it's disposable, and we can just cut it off from our side if we want to get up and away. Right now we are secured by a main line and twenty other supporting lines, which can all be cast off here on the bridge. Make sure we're aerostatic before you do it, so we don't go shooting up."

It was a marvelously simple strategy, and the winches meant that the airship can get back on air in an instant if danger approached. Suitable for quick drop missions and fast equipment deployment. He could only imagine the cost as being prohibitively high, or every Darwinist airship would have long started using this efficient docking system.

"Well, now you know, what are you waiting for?" Hemmingfeld said impatiently. "Up ship. And please don't wreck it, or the General will probably have us all hanged."

Matt took a deep breath and looked across at the control panels. Almost instantly he identified the ballast board and the gas cells, and after a second figured out how to read the strain percentage on the mooring lines. All Service airships used hydrogen instead of hydrium, but fortunately so did many of the poorer airliners and cargo ships, so the Academy had drilled it into his head the relative lift ratios of the two gases, and he had an intuitive sense of how much he needed to vent. He did so now, and saw that the tension decreased dramatically.

He double checked all the figures, before nodding back at Trenton, who flicked a series of switches on his side. Green light lit up one by one on the status of each winch, indicating they've successfully detached the silk landing lines. Matt then passed the signal to the already rumbling engines, engaging two at each side to all ahead dead slow.

Gently, the airship inched forward, like a cat testing the waters. The hangar entrance was wide, so Matt had no fear on this account. He angled some of the fins according to the wind he had felt back when he was entering the place, so the ship would exit as calmly as possible. Swift and smooth like a eel slipping out of its burrow, they emerged into the open air. The sunlight was filtered through the protective casing of the bridge, and seemed much softer.

"Huh," said Hemmingfeld. "Not as disastrous as I thought it might be."

"Have some faith in me, Lieutenant," said Matt, feeling pleased with himself. There was something about being at the helm of an airship — it calmed him down and made him more confident. He would never talk to Hemmingfeld like that had he not been piloting.

The officer too, seemed a little surprised. "Then earn it," he said after a moment. "Show me. Prove it."

Matt dumped ballast, and gloried in the sudden heaviness in his heels that signified the rise. He ordered all the engines engaged and throttled them to half power. The _Valkyrie_'s sleek form gave an eager lurch forward, before the steady pitch took over and she gradually increased her speed. At half power, the ship was already faster than many older airships at full speed, which Matt had to admit was quite something indeed.

"Elevators up three degrees," he said into the speaking tubes, and registered the slight shift with his body. Then he turned to Hemmingfeld and grinned, feeling the power of the skies at his back. "Mark my words, sir. By the end of this mission, I _will_ have earned your faith."

ooo

Riding the _Valkyrie_ at full speed reminded Matt of riding the _Saga_, except the _Valkyrie_ was even faster. Swaths of snowy peaks and silent forests passed by beneath them in a blur, almost too swiftly to be properly seen. He felt that if ever Santa Claus had a sleigh, this must be what it was like — on top of a storm gale, seeming almost still and yet with the raw force of nature behind you.

The ship was supple and yielding, gentle adjustments enough to bring swift and remarkably stable changes in direction or height. She was quiet as well, all but part of the background, a whistling nimbus shooting past. As they flew, Trenton dutifully outlined all the rest of the ship's arsenal of fire and explained each post so Matt would know what part of the ship was currently manned. Ordinarily, the _Valkyrie_ had a combat crew of forty-seven: twenty-two gunners, five bomb bay operators, five strafing glider pilots, and fifteen melee boarding repellers who also functioned as paratroopers. However, being flown by a skeletal crew in recon mode, none of the ship's weapons were currently engaged. Most manpower went instead to the engines: there were fourteen engineers onboard, plus two lookouts, a recon specialist, and the three officers on the bridge. Three sailmakers were here as well, out of the usual five, which marked a grand total of twenty-three men out of the possible eighty-two — not even a third of the ship's full might. The evening's flight would be the real deal, the cameras depicting the _Valkyrie_ at the height of her power, but at the moment the airship was a husk. Not that they were in any danger of an aerial attack — they were in southern Switzerland, far from the aquatic German airbase at Lake Constance, and plus they weren't even at war yet. Most people at base expected the declaration to come in a few days, but for now the Germans were technically peaceful.

Suddenly a voice came through from the crow's nest speaking tube.

"Sir! I see something!" said the aft crow's nest lookout.

Matt thought it was perhaps not protocol to respond to a 'sir' since he certainly didn't outrank the lookout and wasn't even a soldier, so he let Hemmingfeld answer.

"What is it?" the Lieutenant asked. "What did you see?"

"It's — circling around the — oh Lord it's heading towards the bridge."

"Not helpful. What _is_ it?"

"I don't know, sir, but it's not a threat. A bird of some kind. Approaching due port."

All three of them looked out towards the left, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Moments later, Matt was the first one to spot it; a dark spot weaving in and out of the clouds, very nimble, and _fast_.

"There!" he pointed. As if recognizing the ship, the dot suddenly dashed straight over to them, and in a second it had grown large enough to identify — it was a dark blue messenger peregrine, the fastest avianesque ever fabricated. Even as they watched, it flew circles around the bridge and then doubled back, screeching. Given that the _Valkyrie_ was at full speed, it was a very impressive maneuver.

"Unexpected," said Hemmingfeld, walking towards the window. He unlatched it and leaned his weight against the frame, which swung out easily.

"Cruse, throttle back," said Trenton.

"Right," Matt said, and gave the signal to the engine crew. He set the wheel at a gentle turn, so they would keep circling in the air, then turned back.

The large bird shot inside once the gap was wide enough for its regal 6 feet wingspan to fit through. After a cursory glance, it went to perch on Hemmingfeld's shoulders, and seemed to shrink to half its size as it closed its wings and nestled its head into its feathers. The Lieutenant checked the origin tag on its neck.

"From the _Leviathan_," he announced, striding back to his post.

"Unexpected alright," Trenton said. "Let's hear what they have to tell us." He took out a small wax-like cube and letting the bird smell it. These cubes were the Darwinist's way to make sure that intervessel communication remained secure. It contained certain pheromones that unlocked the messenger animal's memories, allowing it to deliver. "Relay message," Trenton commanded after waiting for a few seconds for the pheromone to do its job.

The bird opened its beaks, and the three of them held their breath expectantly.

"Greetings," the peregrine said in an authoritative, gravelly voice. "This is Captain Hobbes of the _Leviathan_, originally en route to Constantinople. Last night, we were attacked by ten German aircraft, all eliminated, but we've been badly hit and have forced a landing on a glacier, at coordinates 46.81 degrees North and 8.85 degrees East. Our situation is dire: we have five crewmen dead and two lost last night, our engines are heavily damaged, and though we are airtight after patching, we lost twenty percent of our hydrogen, and do not have enough stored supplies to get airborne once more. We are also carrying two important scientists and their cargoes of paramount urgency, which must not fall into enemy hands. To any friendly vessels in nearby airspace: we _will_ be in German air assault range, we _will_ be completely defenseless, and we are requesting _immediate_ assistance. End message."

The bird closed its beaks and its head drooped. Hemmingfeld put it on a perch, and it closed its eyes, no doubt exhausted. No one spoke for some time.

Then Matt slammed the seven throttles all the way down, a signal for full speed ahead. He grabbed the wheel and set their heading towards coordinates, feeling the engines start up once more.

"Stop, Cruse! We must go back for reinforcements —" said Trenton.

"Cruse, what in the blazes are you —" said Hemmingfeld. "We have to go back."

"No," Matt said. "We go now."

"What? Look, I know you want to go help them, but the _Valkyrie_ is not equipped for combat right now."

"We have to try," Matt said.

"We will. But what we will do _first_, is follow protocol and go back to resupply ourselves. It'll only be an hour and a half going back."

"And it will take six _more_ hours to get there from base." Matt said. "Only four from here."

"Listen: they were shot down, so the Germans must have declared war. We have to at least get word back to the base and —"

"Send a bird," Matt said tersely. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

"We'll do that too," said Trenton. "But we need to get more men, and lots of supplies." He exchanged a look with Hemmingfeld. "Also, the General has explicitly forbidden us to let you into any situation where you might be in danger."

"Right. Now the war's really started, lad, we've got to keep you safe at base. Leave it to the professionals."

"I do not answer to your General," Matt said. "I do not _care_ about your General. We go now."

Trenton rubbed his forehead, at a loss. His colleague spat out a "bloody hell," and stepped forward to reach out for the wheel himself.

Matt looked over his shoulders at the man. He felt dizzy, and his heart was thumping like a beast trapped in his ribcage. With a quick twist and an elbow blow he knocked Hemmingfeld away from the controls, and for once, the Lieutenant looked stunned.

"You assaulted a ranking officer," he said after he regained his composure. "Stop now or you will be committing mutiny and treason, and I will be forced to subdue you. Step aside or face the consequences."

"No," Matt said, quietly. "_You_ stand down, sir, or you might as well kill me now."

"What? Are you _mad?_ You're acting the fool trying to be a hero! Who are you doing it for? The cameras aren't even —"

"Damn the cameras to hell — damn everything — My_ wife_ is on that ship."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

In case anyone was wondering, the coordinates point to the Hüfi glacier in Switzerland; a sizable glacier close to the Austrian border and around 6500-8000 ft. in height, which I thought fits the bill quite nicely.


End file.
